


The True Lover's Farewell

by LorettyLauren93



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorettyLauren93/pseuds/LorettyLauren93
Summary: Sophia Mason had been with the Van der Linde Gang since she was a child, being raised alongside Arthur Morgan. She knew the ins and outs of what it took to be an outlaw in a male-run world, even knew the brutal aspect of that life. After the job in Blackwater went awry, a letter addressed to Arthur opens old wounds in order to start anew. Closely follows RDR2 storyline. ArthurxOC pairing.





	1. Author's Note/ Character Biography

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
>  
> 
> This is my first fic here on AO3, but not my first fic. I normally reside on Fanfiction dot net under the same username, but was recommended to start posting here as well! This fic is an Arthur Morgan x OC fic brought over from Fanfiction dot net, where I'll still be posting updates. 
> 
>  
> 
> In turn (as well as copy and pasting what I've said), I recently started playing RDR2 after watching my husband play it halfway through a few weeks ago, and I. AM. SHOOKETH with Arthur Morgan.
> 
> So, my dumb self decides to get on Tumblr because I have jumped clear through the rabbit hole for the fandom, and guess what? SPOILERS. My heart cannot take this travesty that has been bestowed upon this beautiful, scarred man that is Arthur Morgan.
> 
> Nope. No sir-ee Bob.
> 
> I must protect him.
> 
> I must mold a love for him that is not Mary Linton.
> 
> I must create a WHOLE NEW ENDING.
> 
> Rockstar, yo. What gives with the feels?! I even had it with GTA IV!
> 
> SO. I want y'all to get familiar with this new gal. Perhaps get a feel for her, and by all means, if there's tweaking that needs twunk, please be darlings and give me a shout in the PMs or in a review or however AO3 works (I'm new to the format)!
> 
> This first chapter is just a biography/timeline of my character. There will be more info filling everyone in as the story progresses, and I guess I can even say that this story will be more in Arthur-centric rather than my character?
> 
> We'll see.
> 
> We'll get us a good feel with the first actual chapter to see how everyone feels.
> 
> For now, I give you Miss Sophia Mason's biography and timeline.

Sophia Lynn "Wildcat" Mason

32 years of age

Average height with an athletic build and a head full of wild, curly chocolate brown hair. Sophia has steel gray eyes with flecks of blue. Her skin has aged and tanned with small freckles that appear under the coaxing of the sun. Scars from years of being an outlaw lie scattered across her body—contributing to part of her low self-esteem.

Sophia Mason is a warm, laid-back member of the Van Der Linde gang. She's the exact opposite of what men would normally expect out of a woman in the late 1890s. Having been raised within the gang for so long, she's treated like one of the guys, therefore her 'peculiar' tastes and outlandish habits are easily overlooked. Her laid-back personality also has its darker side. As an outlaw, Sophia can be as cold and ruthless as they come—a proven asset to Dutch. She's a skilled hunter and fisherman, often contributing her part of the labor in camp.

Rumor has it; Sophia fought and killed a bobcat with her bare hands, hence gaining the nickname "Wildcat".

Susan absolutely detests her ways of living, probably because she could never tame Sophia down into a dress, like a proper lady.

With that being said, she is still a woman.

She faces the stereotypical ' _men are above women'_  shtick every other day, often being called hysterical or delusional by not being married or having any children, usually being brought on by her choice of clothing, which marginally contributes to her low-esteem.

Music is her passion, often finding herself swaying to a ballad or humming to a concerto of Mozart. Animals, especially baby animals, are a weakness. She enjoys the peacefulness of her surrounding, often gazing at the sunrise or sunset until the environment recedes into the cover of night or livens up with the light of day.

Had she lived a normal life, she believed she could've been a singer or a composer.

Sophia has a fear of butterflies—often bursting out into laughing fits in place of crying.

* * *

Othello—a gray dapple Andalusian stallion that belonged to her father, Forrest Mason.

Forrest Mason—Father

Lily Mason—Mother

In 1861, Forrest Mason was a Union soldier in the Civil War.

In the wave of the civil war ending, Forrest headed south into Saint Denis in 1866, becoming a farm hand at Braithwaite Manor. He met the Braithwaite's youngest daughter, Lily, one fateful day as the two immediately fell in love. Lily, however, was destined to marry a prestigious bank owner of Saint Denis in the matter of a few months. The two of them planned to run away to elope, finalizing the plan a week before the wedding upon finding out that Lily was pregnant.

Forrest became a wanted man for kidnapping, causing the two to flee into the mountains where Lily gave birth to their daughter, Sophia, months later in 1867.

In 1876, Forrest and Lily encountered Dutch Van der Linde and Hosea Matthews, who offered them solace through joining their newly emerging gang.

In 1879, Lily died shortly after contracting pneumonia in the dead of winter. Sophia was only 12 at the time. Her father, Forrest, took Lily's death the hardest, as the gang mourned the loss of a member. Forrest began teaching Sophia the ways of the gang, much to Susan Grimshaw's chagrin. She learned how to hold a gun, throw a knife, and shoot a bow with impeccable accuracy; while learning basic survival skills like creating shelter, making a fire, hunting, and fishing.

In 1880, Sophia's first job as an outlaw was a basic stagecoach robbery, despite the protests of her friend, Arthur Morgan and gang matriarch, Susan Grimshaw.


	2. Outlaws from the West

A lone caravan of wagons and riders filed in a slow precession as it battled screaming, torrential winds of the pass. Trees thrashed around wildly, coated with a thick accumulation of snow and ice; the faces of the riders chapped from the bitter cold. Lanterns cut through the darkness only a few feet ahead in a poor attempt to gain direction. Women were bundled up with blankets, holding each other tightly for warmth as they surrounded a fallen comrade who had been shot in the gut.

A man left the back of the wagon, Reverend Swanson, quickened his pace to the front where the drivers were huddled amongst themselves for warmth despite the piercing cold, "Abigail says he's dyin', Dutch," He announced over the howling wind, "We'll have to stop someplace."

The driver met the man's gaze, "Okay. Arthur's out looking," he responded with encouragement in his voice, "I sent him up ahead." Reverend Swanson nodded, returning to the back of the covered wagon while Dutch turned to check on the people in the back, "Any sign of Forrest and Sophia?" He called out back.

"Haven't seen a thing, Dutch!" A voice from one of the other wagons boomed back.

"Christ," he muttered, turning back to view up in front of him.

Dutch's longtime friend, Hosea Matthews, sitting beside him made a sound, as if he were clearing his throat, "If we don't stop soon, we'll  _all_  be dyin." He commented, bitter about the cold, "This weather—it's May. I'm just hoping the law got as lost as we did."

"There," He strained his eyes through the never ending gray cast of snow and night, catching a glimpse of a figure on a horse approaching, "Arthur! Any luck?"

The rider approached, snow coating the thick wool jacket he had on and atop of his hat while cold, hard eyes peered from underneath the brim analyzing Dutch, "I found a place where we can get some shelter," Arthur grated out, "Let Davey rest while he…" his voice faltered for a moment under the grim circumstances, "you know." Steering the horse he was riding around, he continued, "An old mining town, abandoned—it ain't far." Arthur peered over his shoulder, gesturing to the caravan, "Come on.  _Come on!_ " His voice boomed over top of the wind, pushing the horse back into the direction of his find—the caravan behind him trudged on behind him, more than eager to find shelter from this horrendous weather.

* * *

It was a painstaking ride before the group had made it into the abandoned mining town. Several buildings had been worn down from time and the elements, while there were still some buildings that were in better condition. The wagons stopped. Horses protested, shifting uncomfortably in the snow and wind, as people in the wagons filed out.

Hosea entered a building, lantern in one hand, his pistol in the other—searching for any signs of life. Lifting the lantern to eye level, the darkened room filled with light as it exposed the conditions for the older man to see. He holstered his pistol, turning back to the door, "Bring them in here," he called out, turning his attention to the clutter as Abigail filed in shortly before Arthur and Bill brought a stretcher in that contained Davey. Tilly and Abigail's son, Jack, came in behind them as did the rest of the group, Dutch bringing up the rear.

Arthur and Bill laid Davey across a table as Abigail and Tilly assessed their fallen comrade.

"Miss Gaskill," Susan Grimshaw, the group's matriarch, began to give directives to the girls, "get that fire lit quick. Miss Jones, bring in whatever blankets we have." Abigail bent closer to Davey, giving him a grave look, "Mr. Pearson, see what we've got in terms of food."

Straightening up, Abigail turned to the group, "Davey's dead." She bowed her head in grief.

"There was nothing more you could have done," Reverend Swanson consoled, turning to Davey's corpse, placing two coins on his eyes for passage onto the afterlife.

"What're we gonna do? We need supplies." Hosea questioned.

"Well, first of all, you're gonna stay here and you are gonna get yourself warm," Dutch responded, "Now, I sent John and Micah scouting out ahead. Arthur and I, we're gonna ride out, see if we can find one of 'em."

Arthur turned towards Dutch, unbelieving of what he had heard, "In this?" He gestured his hand to the howling mess outside.

Dutch glanced to the door, "Just for a short bit…I don't see what other choice we have." The man turned to his group, "Listen. Listen to me all of you, for a moment." He announced. All eyes were on him, as always. He was the group's leader after all, "Now, we've had…well, a bad couple of days." His eyes went to the back of the room, gesturing to his fallen group member, "I loved Davey…Jenny, Sean, Mac…" Dutch felt a lump rise in his throat, "Sophia and Forrest…they may be okay, we don't know."

Arthur's gaze went from the group to Dutch, feeling concern gnaw at his stomach.

Dutch glanced to Arthur in return, "But we lost some folks," he continued, folding his hands in front of him, "Now, if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead…I'd do it, gladly. But…we're gonna ride out and we're gonna find some food."

Arthur nodded at Dutch's decision. He was the leader after all.

"Everybody, we're safe now," He assured the group, "There ain't nobody following us through a storm like this one…and by the time they get here, well, we're gonna be—we're gonna be long gone. We've been through worse than this before." Dutch set his sights on valuable members of the gang, "Mr. Pearson. Miss Grimshaw. I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days." He scanned their faces, "Now, all of you…get yourselves warm. Stay strong." His words of encouragement reverberated within each group member, "Stay. With. Me. We ain't done yet!"

Dutch turned, grabbing a lantern off a table, motioning to Arthur, before walking out into the storm once again, "Come on, Arthur." Arthur patted Hosea's shoulder as he passed by, following behind Dutch.

"Alright," Arthur heard Miss Grimshaw announce to the rest of the group, "We've got some work to do."

Arthur met Dutch on the stoop of the building, holding the lantern up to get a better look amongst the swirling snow, "Well, we ain't run into them yet, so, they must have headed down the hill."

"Sure," Arthur replied, reaching out to tap Dutch, "Hey. I ain't had time to ask. What really went down back there on that boat?"

He turned, analyzing Arthur's expression, "We missed you, that's what happened," Dutch replied, "Come on."

The both of them trudged forward, meeting up with Charles, leading two horses.

"Hey," he greeted them, "Need horses?"

"Oh yeah, and Mr. Smith, get yourself indoors," Dutch spoke to him as he took his horse, The Count, "You need to rest that hand," he added after mounting.

"I'll live," Charles replied.

Arthur mounted a sorrel paint, much to his displeasure. It definitely wasn't Boadicea, that was for sure, but this'll do, for now. He patted the stallion's withers, calming the spooked beast for an easier ride in already uninhabitable weather.

"Get indoors, son!" Dutch ordered, "I,  _we_ , need you strong."

Charles nodded, "Okay."

"Alright," Dutch confirmed, "Let's head out."

* * *

The cold was absolutely miserable to be out in. Anyone to be out in this was either a dead man or a damned fool. Arthur guessed he and Dutch must've been damned fools seeing how they were both out in it searching for any of the group members.

"Ain't sure what we're gonna find out here, Dutch," Arthur called out from his horse, uncertain of what they were going to encounter, much less find.

"We have to try," Dutch hollered back, "Stay close and we'll do our best to stick to the trail."

A gust of wind cut through his jacket, chilling him to his core, "This god damned weather," Arthur ground out, keeping in stride with Dutch's horse.

"Been two days or more like this now," Dutch lamented, "Oh, it has to blow over soon." Riding up the trail a ways, they came to a covered part of the stream, "Bridge comin' up, take it easy," he warned, slowing down the Count to a brisk walk.

Arthur did the same, falling beside the older man, "Can't believe we lost Davey too," Arthur's solemn words earned a look from Dutch.

"He's the last one, Arthur.  _No more_ ," he ground out, "We need to get those people warm and fed."

"Least we don't need to worry about Pinkertons tailing us in this," Arthur spoke.

"A couple more days, we'll be on the other side," Dutch reassured as they rode on, "You need to help me pick the others back up. You're the only one I can rely on to stay strong right now."

Silence fell between them except for the roar of the wind or the groans from the trees. Several questions weighed upon his mind, "Any word on Sophia and Forrest?" Arthur finally asked, unable to contain his concern for his friend. The look in Dutch's eyes in a brief glance towards him didn't settle his uneasy mind, or unclench the fist that had a hold on his stomach. If anything, it made him feel worse.

Dutch shook his head, "No, not a thing. I didn't see anyone bringing up the rear when we got into town. From what I understand, they were the last to get out of Blackwater," Dutch nodded his head at a thought; "They're tough people, Arthur. They've always caught up with us after a bad situation."

Dutch's words eased his mind for the time being, "Yeah. Guess you're right. Soph and Forrest know what they're doin'." He echoed, following the trail beside Dutch.

The older man leaned forward in his saddle, "Wait, is that someone coming towards us?" Dutch questioned. Both men slowed their horses to a halt, eyes straining against the darkness despite the light from the lantern illuminating the first five feet ahead of them.

Arthur's kneejerk reaction to an unknown person approaching them was extreme caution. They couldn't take a chance on running into Pinkertons or O'Driscoll's—they'd be foolish to be in this weather. His hand rested on his pistol, ready to take whatever action was necessary while his other hand lifted the lantern higher to see whoever's face.

"You there," Dutch called out, "Who's there?"

The glow of another lantern appeared from the gray background as the figure slowly approached, revealing to be the newest member of the gang, Micah Bell. Arthur's nose wrinkled upon sight of the greasy looking bastard. One can say that he didn't fancy Mr. Bell or his antics—too much of a wild card.

Unpredictable, at best.

"Gentlemen," Micah greeted, reddened eyes swiveling between Arthur and Dutch.

"Find anything?" Dutch asked.

Micah nodded, "I think so. Found a little homestead down thataway."

"Okay," Dutch replied with a nod, pleased to hear of Micah's findings, "Anyone home?"

Micah tilted his head, "Sure," came his reply, "Place is blazing with light and noise. Sounded like a party."

"Let's go see," Dutch urged.

Micah gestured to the direction from which he came from, "Follow me." Turning his horse, he cleared his throat, "How's Davey doin?"

"Ah, he didn't make it," Dutch announced, his voice solemn with the news.

"That's too bad. Davey was a real fighter," Micah lamented, "Both of them Callander boys is, or…," he then snorted, " _was_."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed to the statement.

"And Mac and Sean?" Arthur heard him ask.

"We don't know," Dutch called back.

"What about Sophia and Forrest?" Dutch hollered to Micah, "Have you heard or seen anything?"

"No. Nothing. Last time I saw either of them was when we were hightailin' it out of Blackwater," Micah's voice cut through the wind, "Why? They ain't made it?"

"I'm afraid not," Dutch replied.

"They're a tough bunch—resourceful." Micah added.

"Indeed so!" Dutch chuckled, knowing how the Masons were.

"What a business," Micah joked, moments after silence had fallen.

"I'm glad you're alright, Micah," Dutch commented over the wind once again.

"Always," Micah hollered back.

The three of them ascended a slope, their horses easing their way further up and along the trail with an occasional whinny or snort in protest. Despite the small words of reassurance from Micah, Arthur felt the knot in his stomach worsen. Something bad had happened. It was a feeling he couldn't shake since this whole ordeal went down in Blackwater. He had known the Masons going on twenty-one years now. Aside from Dutch and Hosea, Forrest and Sophia were the closest people to him that he considered to be friends. Hell, they were damn near family. They had been with Dutch since the beginnings of the gang; a couple of years before he was even in the picture. Forrest's daughter, Sophia, had practically been raised in the group—much like he had been, as well as Marston.

Speaking of which, "Ask him if he's seen John!" Arthur hollered out to Dutch.

"Hey, have you seen John, Micah?" Arthur heard him ask.

"Didn't see much of anything once the storm came in," Micah reported.

"He hasn't seen anything," Dutch's voice volleyed back to Arthur.

"He'll be fine," He shouted back, "Things always turn out right for that boy."

"I hope…," Dutch's voice held hope in these turns of events, "Mac and Sean…Soph and Forrest—they're still out there somewhere too," Dutch said, "Move up, Arthur. I'll cover the rear."

Arthur dug his heels into the paint, riding alongside Dutch and the Count for a moment as they slowed down enough for him to gain enough momentum to be between him and Micah. Once again, silence was all but drowned out by the howling of the wind, the clinking of metal from their saddles, and the occasional snort from a horse. Coming upon the crest of the hill, they descended the slippery slope—even for the horses, it felt like a task on its own.

Nudging the paint further upon fairly even ground, he caught up to Micah, "Are you sure about this?" he questioned the man beside him.

"Mr. Morgan, I never thought I would be so pleased to see your face," came the man's reply, "Been kind of… _lonely_  out here. Where's everyone else?"

"Old mining camp, back up the hill," Arthur spoke.

"Huddled around a fire waiting for daddy to put food on the table," Micah sneered out, "Like I said before, we've got too many mouths to feed."

"Well, we got a few less now, so you should be happy," Arthur countered with a disgruntled look towards the man.

Micah cornered his eye to him, "That ain't fair, Arthur. I earn my share." Upon reaching the crest of another hill, he slowed his horse down, "Okay, let's keep it down now, gentlemen. It's just up ahead."

Dutch and himself slowed their horses, able to see farther ahead for the time being as the silhouette of a homestead loomed down in a valley. If Arthur squinted hard enough, he thought he could make out the serpentine shape of a fence, winding around a barn a fair piece from the homestead and a shack almost beside the homestead. Would've been a fine home for anybody—even to him at one point in time, it would've been an ideal place for a family of his own. Those days, however, were no longer in the books for him. Like anyone on this god forsaken planet would ever want a man like him anyhow.

A gust of wind tugged at his hat, threatening to pull it off the top of his head. He took a hand, pressing it down firmly whilst muttering a curse under his breath, "Goddamn wind."

"Okay…" Dutch's voice cut the man from his thoughts, earning an inquisitive look on what his next move was going to be, "let's head down there." Taking the lead, Dutch headed down the slope as Micah and himself followed suit. The trail winded around, through a grove of trees before it opened up into a clearing where the three of them hitched their horses a short ways from the house. Music could be heard playing accompanied by stomping and laughter from inside, "Let me handle this, we don't wanna spook these fine people."

Dutch led the way, trudging through the snow with the lantern shining the way as Arthur and Micah followed close behind.

"Someone's having fun in there," Micah commented with a smug grin on his face.

Dutch glanced to the both of them, "You two, get yourself out of sight," he ordered, "One lonely man is a lot less intimidating than three nasty looking degenerates. Arthur, in that cattle shed on the left. Micah, get down behind that wagon in front."

Both men took positions in their respective areas as Dutch approached the front door of the homestead. Arthur's gut knotted up something fierce. It had been all day, feeling like it wasn't about to let up anytime soon. From in the cattle shed, he peered over the rail, watching his long time friend approach a potentially dangerous situation.

"Hello?" Dutch called out to the people inside the home. Abruptly, the music stopped. The laughter and stomping stopped, "Excuse me? Hello?"

A man finally came to the door, stepping out.

"Oh, well, hello friend," Dutch greeted the stranger cheerfully.

"What you want?" The stranger questioned, Arthur noted the hint of caution in the man's voice.

"I am very sorry to disturb you. Uh, my friend and I, well, we got into some…trouble up the way. Lost in the storm," he explained as another male stepped out behind the man Dutch was speaking with, "Ah, gentlemen."

"We  _can't_  help you," The stranger answered back, a warning in his voice.

Arthur caught sight of another man exiting from the side door. He pressed his lips in a thin line, glancing back to Dutch. If things went south, the odds were still pretty good.

"Arthur," Micah spoke quietly, "Arthur, we got a problem," something had spooked the man. He met the man's bewildered gaze, following his arm that had lifted up a cover, "There's a corpse right here." Arthur felt his stomach drop, "Arthur, there's a body in the wagon." Micah repeated.

"Yeah, I hear you," Arthur responded, keeping his voice low as he drew his pistol, "Keep your eyes on Dutch."

"I think you should go now, buddy," The man spoke, stepping closer to Dutch, "Holy shit, it's Dutch Van der Linde!"

"Shit," Arthur ground out, aiming his gun at the hidden man, firing. Micah followed suit, firing at the man that Dutch was speaking with. Dutch dove for cover behind the outhouse as all hell cut loose.

"Watch out! One up top in the window!" Dutch hollered out from his position, quickly ducking as the shooter fired, hitting a pile of wood nearby. Arthur aimed his pistol, firing it at the man. A pained yell escaped from the man as he fell from the window, slid down the roof of the porch, and collided with the ground in a heap—dead.

"God damn, bastards! You're dead now!" A man running out of the house said, firing his gun in all directions. Micah made quick work of him, catching sight of someone taking off.

"We've got a runner! You see him, Arthur?"

Another man ran from the side door, running up the trail in an attempt to get away. Leaving the cover of the cattle shack, Arthur had followed suit, pistol raised. Halting, he aimed, firing at the fleeing man. The rumbling echo of the last shot subsided, turning the homestead deathly quiet.

"Arthur, I said I'd handle this!" Dutch yelled out, angry that the plan didn't go as planned.

"Didn't seem to be going too well," he countered, coming back from behind the house.

"Goddamn, O'Driscoll's boys  _here_?" Dutch swore, "Why?" He stepped out from behind the outhouse, shaking his head in disbelief.

Micah raised his arms, "I don't know maybe same reason as us!"

Dutch motioned his hand to the horses, "Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house," Dutch approached the steps of the porch, "Arthur, let's go search the cabin."

* * *

Upon entering the cabin, a wave of warmth greeted him like a cloak. The smell of cigarettes and liquor filled the air, as well as tinges of cooked food, "Smells like a party in here," he commented.

"Turn the place upside down, grab as many supplies as you can," Dutch said, rummaging through cabinets, "We need the essentials; food, medicine, and whisky."

Coming to a desk, Arthur picked up a cigar that had been left behind and a box of oatcakes, which reminded him that he was hungry. His stomach cramped and rumbled, earning an irritated groan, "I'm starving."

Dutch looked up from a cabinet to him, "You should eat something now. Get your strength up for the ride back."

Reaching back into his satchel, he took out an oatcake, biting into it as he walked over to the fireplace; eyes resting on the photographs that sat neatly in a row. He picked up one photograph in particular, humming in pity, "Looks like the poor bastard was married too, at some point."

"If we can't eat it or drink it, put it down," He heard Dutch say from behind. Setting the picture back down, Arthur then moved to some cabinets, searching through them. He found a few cans of beans and random vegetables, a jar or two of corn and a half a loaf of bread—it wasn't much in the house, considering that the inhabitants had eaten everything but those few items, "O'Driscolls, I don't believe it."

"It's a strange one alright," Arthur replied, "Maybe they're hiding up here too. There's a big price on Colm O'Driscoll's head…nearly as big as the one on  _yours_."

Dutch let out a scoff, "Wanting Colm dead is about the only thing me and Uncle Sam agree on."

Arthur chuckled as he migrated over to a nook, searching through a cabinet on the wall, "Place is dry, and warm, we could maybe move the women and Jack down here." He placed a bottle of medicine in his satchel, peering over to Dutch as he spoke.

"Maybe," Dutch responded, "We'll have to see how they are when we get back. I don't really want us to split up."

Moving toward counter space, he stepped over a pool dark liquid, "Big old pool of blood on the floor here."

Dutch glanced to him, nodding, "I saw."

"Probably the poor bastard who lived here," He surmised, filling his satchel with canned biscuits, more cans of beans and fruit, "Micah found a dead body in the wagon outside."

"I'm going to start packing the horses—you keep looking," He waved his hand, gesturing to Dutch that he got the place covered. Here and there, Arthur would eat a bite or two of oatcakes or a slice of salted beef to settle his rumbling stomach, even snuck a swallow of bourbon that had been left unattended on the table as he passed by.

It helped, for now. Something had to give sooner or later to help put the group in a good place.

"Grab anything you think we can use, the meet me out here," Dutch added from outside.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, "I'm comin'." With one more look over, he felt like it had been thoroughly searched. Turning on his heel, Arthur all but readied himself to enter the blustery cold once again. Stepping out, Dutch was standing by the Count, loading the saddlebags with his findings.

"Micah, Arthur, keep looking for stuff," He let out a grunt, closing the flap to his saddlebag, "Arthur, go see if there's anything in that barn. Micah, go search the cabin, see what we missed."

"Sure," he replied with nod, falling into the overused trail by the now dead O'Driscoll's from the cabin to the barn. A horse within the barn whinnied and stamped, like something had spooked it—it could've been him, or someone else was in the barn. Opening the barn door, Arthur drew his pistol as a precautionary step, taking a few steps inside.

In the stable, a black paint stamped and shook its head, frightened. Arthur pitied the animal in the case of events—horses were a jittery creature to begin with. A sound from above caught him off guard, shortly being sent to the ground under the weight of the person that had jumped onto him; his gun flying out of his hand, his hat lying elsewhere. All that mattered was getting this person off of him, and sending him into the afterlife.

"You bastards shot my cousin!" The man, an O'Driscoll, shouted as he regained his footing after Arthur planted a well-placed kick into the man's side.

"Well, he started it," Arthur returned, standing up to face him.

The O'Driscoll's face contorted with anger, "I'm gonna break your neck!" He swung, missing Arthur by a mile, to which, he retaliated with a few swings that knocked the boy unbalanced.

"What's going on?" Dutch asked, leaning against the framing of the barn, watching the two men throw punches at each other.

Arthur quickly gained the upper hand, "The guy just jumped me," he grunted out, grabbing the man by the collar. His fist connected twice before throwing him to the ground.

"Oh, did he now?" Dutch chuckled.

The man lie on the floor, cowering for his life.

"Sneaky little bastard, should I kill him?" The man's eyes bugged out of his skull at the sound of Arthur's question.

"No," Dutch began, "Not yet. Find out what they're doing here and where Colm is."

"Oh this son of a bitch'll talk," Arthur grabbed the man by the collar without hesitation, sending a blow to the side of the man's face. After two more blows, he held the guy still, "Where's Colm O'Driscoll?"

"W-with the others," the man choked out, "At an old mining camp southwest of here, near the lake."

"What are you bastards doing?" Arthur's voice rumbled, "Why are you up here?"

"We're fixing to rob some train, gonna blow the track," he answered with a whimper. What a pathetic sound, "I don't know more than that, I swear!"

From behind, Dutch began chuckling at the news he'd just heard from the O'Driscoll boy, "Well, I would say it looks like you have this, Arthur. Do what you want with him, I don't care." There was a pregnant pause, "But bring that horse when you're done."

Arthur knew in his gut, if he'd spare the O'Driscoll he'd go running to Colm. Quite possibly tell him where he ran into them at, and commence a wider search—putting everyone in the gang in jeopardy. He couldn't take that chance.

The O'Driscoll had to die.

His hands wrapped around the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. There wasn't much of a struggle from him. He went pretty quick.

Straightening up, Arthur dusted off his hands. His gaze went to the floor in search of his pistol and hat, finding them a few feet away. Putting his hat back on, he bent over to pick up his pistol, holstering it before turning to the paint in the stall. He push a loud sigh through his nose.

The horse stamped and snorted, throwing its head back with a screech. Arthur held his hands up shushing the frightened creature, "Easy, boy." He approached the stall taking measured steps, pausing when it reared up halfway, "Woah, now. Easy, boy," Ever so slowly, he opened the gate, entering the stall when it began showing signs of calming down, "There ya go, boy. Nice an' easy," He placed a gentle hand on the stallion's neck, giving it a rub and a couple of pats; he took the reins, leading the horse out of the barn.

"Is that bastard still in there?" Dutch hollered from the porch.

"He's dealt with," he grunted out.

"Good," His voice held pride in it, "That looks like a decent horse, you should keep him. You need to hitch him. He's already skittish."

Arthur glanced to the horse, offering it another pat on the shoulder, "Good boy," he murmured to it, tying it to the hitching post nearby. Inside, there was sounds of stuff getting knocked over followed by a woman screaming.

"Get away from me!"

"Micah, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Dutch yelled, entering the home. Arthur followed suit, the woman inside still screaming. From across the table, there was a woman holding a knife while Micah stood on the other side grinning like a fool.

"Look what I found in the cellar!" he laughed out, "Wild thing aren't you?"

"Leave her alone!" Dutch ordered, while the two went around the table, trying to find an opening for either to grapple or to escape.

"I wasn't doing nothing," Micah replied, knocking over glasses from the table, "She's one of them O'Driscolls."

Dutch moved a hair, gesturing to the trembling woman in front of them, "No she ain't, Micah. Look at her! Miss, miss, are you…" Micah flipped the table from between them, knocking over a lantern that caught the floor on fire. The woman screamed in terror, "Oh, you fool, Micah!"

Micah went for the woman, until she came at him with a knife. He backed off, hands raised.

Arthur shook his head at the man, pushing him to the side.

"Miss, now it is gonna be okay," Dutch reassured her, "We mean you no harm," He raised his hands slowly, reaching for her shoulder and the hand holding the knife, "Miss! Miss…come on, it'll be okay," He observed the growing fire, "We need to get out of here, and quick," Dutch led the woman out, pulling a jacket around her as they exited the burning house, "Come on now. You alright miss?"

"They-they came three days ago," she choked out, "and my husband, they…they," sobs wracked her once more.

"Okay, miss. You are safe now…and you can't stay here," Dutch assured her, as the four of them turned, watching as the woman's home engulf in flames. The woman was dealt a bad hand; her husband was killed, she lost her home, she had nowhere to go.

"Come with us," She looked at Dutch, who had gestured to the man beside them, "Arthur."

Arthur stepped in behind them, taking a hold of Dutch's lantern and placed a hand on her shoulder, "Miss, it's okay, alright?" He walked her to the Count, "We're bad men, but we ain't them, so, it's okay." He handed Dutch the lantern, helping the woman onto the horse, "We'll keep you safe until you figure out what you want to do."

Mounting the horse from the barn, Arthur dug his heels in, urging him forward while leading the other horse loaded down with supplies.

"What's your name miss?" Dutch asked her. Silence. "Miss?"

"Adler," she croaked out.

"Adler?" He echoed.

"Sadie Adler…" she corrected, "Mrs…I…he…" she took a sharp breath, "He was my husband."

* * *

The ride back was tense.

Not a word was spoken again until they approached the familiar outline of their camp. A figure stood, watching.

"Hey, somebody's coming!" His voice yelled out, cocking the shotgun he held in his hands, "Looks like it's Dutch! Hey everybody, Dutch is back!"

Entering the camp, Hosea emerged from one of the buildings, "How'd you get on?"

"Micah found a homestead, but, he weren't the first," Dutch replied, handing his lantern to Lenny, "Colm O'Driscoll and his scum, they beat us to it," The group let out a sigh of dismay, "We found some of them there, but there is more about apparently," He grunted, dismounting from his horse while Hosea helped Sadie down, "scouting a train—thank you." He added as Charles took the Count, leading him to the hitching post.

"That's the last thing that we need, Dutch," Hosea prompted.

"Well, it is what it is," Dutch countered, "but we found supplies, some blankets, a little bit of food," He placed a hand on Sadie's shoulder, "and this poor soul, Mrs. Adler. Miss Tilly, Miss Karen would you warm her up? Give her a drink of something."

Tilly and Karen nodded as they began to usher Sadie into the building.

"And Mrs. Adler, it's gonna be okay, you're safe now," Dutch spoke after her, watching as they closed the door behind them, "They turned her into a widow. Animals." He let out a sigh, "I need some rest. I haven't slept in three days."

"You're over here," Mrs. Grimshaw spoke, gesturing to a building across from where Sadie went, "Miss O'Shea will show you the way. Mr. Morgan, we put you in a room over here," She gestured for him to follow her.

"Thank you Miss. Grimshaw," Arthur tipped his hat to her.

"Mr. Bell, you're with the fellers over there," Mrs. Grimshaw gestured to another building.

Micah looked over to it, glowering, "What? How come Arthur gets a room and I get a bunk bed to Bill Williamson and a bunch of darkies?"

"Get yourself to bed," Hosea told Micah as the group went to their respective areas.

Arthur found his way to the room that Mrs. Grimshaw set up for him, taking his hat off. Setting it to the side, he ran a hand through his hair, recollecting the events of the last three days. His body ached, his mind was swimming with exhaustion, his gut remained in knots. Though, as tired as he may have been, he was restless. There were people missing—important people missing. Two people had died and even to him, that was too many. The group was low on supplies and food.

He had to be the pillar of the group. He had to stay strong…for them. At least, that's what Dutch had told him.

Lying down on the bed, Arthur battled with his thoughts until he finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Lenny Summers stood vigilant in the bitter cold. He had been on guard for most of the night, first to alert everybody in camp if potential danger was to arrive. The young man stood near a small fire that had been lit in front of a building warming his hands and feet. The wind hadn't changed much since Dutch, Arthur, and Micah had returned.

A horse's whinny from the distance sent his heart into his throat.

His first thought was  _Pinkertons_ , but due to the wind distortion, he wasn't so sure. He took a few cautious steps closer; straining his eyes in the dark and the snow to ensure what he heard was indeed a horse.

Then he heard a snort, followed by the sounds of water sloshing indicating to Lenny that someone was indeed crossing the stream, "Hey! Someone's coming!" Lenny shouted loud enough to rouse everyone from their sleep. His eyes remained focused towards the sound, seeing the faint outline of a burly figure on top of a horse, "You there, stop!"

The figure didn't speak.

"I-I won't hesitate to shoot!" Lenny shouted, loading a bullet in the chamber of his lever action. He shouldered it, aiming, "I said stop!"

By now, doors had opened; Hosea, Dutch, Arthur, and the others had quickly gotten up from their beds, guns at the ready. In the light of the lantern, the horse drew closer so that any distinction on it could be recognized, earning a small gasp ushering from Lenny's lips, "It's Forrest's horse!" He called out, earning a series of  _what_ 's or  _goddamn'_ s, "Guys! It's Forrest! He made it!"

His smile faded. The figure on top of the horse swayed dangerously to the left, falling into the snow with a muted  _thud,_  causing him and a few other men to rush forward to check on their comrade. Lenny grabbed the reigns to the horse that had spooked by the sudden movement; also noticing a sled behind the horse containing something wrapped up in a bloodied white sheet.

"Shine us a light, Lenny, why don't ya?" Dutch barked out as he and Arthur Morgan pulled the thick buffalo hide down to see the person's face. Brushing the snow away, a hush fell in the group, earning concerned looks from the men, "Sophia?"

"If Sophia's ridin' Othello," Hosea murmured, his worried gaze fell to the sled behind the dapple stallion, "Then…" A sound left him that sounded like a short exhale of realization. There wasn't any need for words from him.

Forrest was dead.

Dutch bowed his head, jaw clenching in reverence of his dead friend, "Lenny, take Othello and hitch him with the rest of the horses and get him fed," His eyes fell on Arthur, who had Sophia in his arms, looking to him for direction, "Arthur, take Sophia in and get her warm  _now_. Have Mrs. Grimshaw and the girls take care of her. She's not well."

"Will do," Arthur grunted out, wrapping the buffalo hide tighter around the unconscious girl, then rose to his feet, "What're we gon' do about Forrest?"

Dutch's gaze held on the sled, "As soon as this weather breaks, we'll give him and Davey a proper burial—they deserve it," He gestured to the building nearby where Mrs. Grimshaw was now standing, watching the men converse, "Now go on, get her warm and dry, Arthur."

The burly man nodded, saying nothing more as he slowly trudged back toward Mrs. Grimshaw, who was ready to take in whoever the unfortunate soul was.

"You think of that poor soul bringin' her father's corpse this far," Dutch's voice rumbled in his chest, "Three days. Three. Damn. Days."

Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder, "She must've felt that this was a better option than to leave him."

Dutch nodded, "You're right, Hosea. Those… _goddamned_  animals would've dragged his body around before letting the buzzards eat him," Dutch spoke intensely, " _No more_. God as my witness, we won't lose any more good people."

* * *

**A/N: This wraps up the first chapter!**

**What's everybody's thoughts and even expectations? I'd love to hear them!** **I'll do my best to try and post a chapter once every week, by the end of the week-however, it could be longer due to what goes on in my life outside of writing. I look forward to hearing input from everyone! I hope everyone has had a happy holidays and a great start to the new year! Much love from me to y'all!**


	3. Enter, Pursued by a Memory

Arthur stood idly by, unable to assist the scuffle within the building. Upon relinquishing Sophia to the care of Mrs. Grimshaw, it had come to light that she was in worse shape than was thought after getting the buffalo hide pulled off of her. The jacket and shirt had been caked with dirt and blood. Two holes torn through her clothing made it evident that she had been shot in the scurry of fleeing Blackwater. One in her shoulder, the other a mere flesh wound to her side.

It made him sick with disgust.

What the hell exactly happened back there?

Flexing his hands at his sides, Arthur held a firm gaze to Mrs. Grimshaw's back, to which, the matriarch had turned toward him, blood on her brow. His heart sunk and gut knotted with apprehension, "Arthur, you need to leave. From this point on, the presence of a man isn't needed."

Despite knowing that's how things were, he was bewildered at her words, "Mrs. Grimshaw, I-I insist—"

Susan held her mouth in a thin line after letting out a sigh. Worry was evident on her face as she crossed the space between them, resting a bloodied hand on his arm peering up at him, "I know you and Miss. Mason are…close, but you know the rules," She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, "She's in good care now, Mr. Morgan. Now please…" She urged, glancing to the door.

He ran a free hand along his face, taking mental note of how long it had been since he last shaved. Concern for his friend wasn't even the beginning of how he felt. Relenting, he let out a sigh, "I know, I know…" He cast a glance to the older woman that made the worrisome gaze soften a bit, "Will you-?"

"You'll be the first to know, Arthur," Mrs. Grimshaw assured quickly, turning back to the wounded woman lying on a table. From the other side of the table, one of the girls helping, Tilly, noticed something lying on the ground.

Picking it up out of the floor, Tilly examined it closely, nearly gasping, "Oh, Arthur!"

He paused after turning to leave, "Yes, Tilly?"

The girl rounded the table, holding something in her hand, extending it to him, "This fell out of Sophia's pocket—it's addressed to you."

Knitting his brows in confusion, Arthur took the envelope from Tilly, giving the girl a curt nod of thanks before she returned to Mrs. Grimshaw's aid at the table. Placing the envelope into the pocket of his coat, Arthur turned to leave, casting a long glance back to the table before opening the door and into the bitter cold once again, closing it behind him. Having walked across to where Dutch and a few others stood, a hoarse scream ripped through the stillness of the night. Arthur stiffened, absolutely gutted at the sound. It was no secret that he's killed people that needed killing, and heard screams of pain, but somehow, this was much different—like night and day.

"Arthur," Dutch called out, "How is she?"

"Guessing not too well," He exhaled heavily through his nose, joining both men by the fire, "Been shot twice—got a bullet in her shoulder and got grazed on her side."

Dutch ran a hand down his mouth, unable to speak. Even for Dutch, it was unusual.

"She's too much like her father," Hosea spoke with confidence, "She'll pull through just fine," he added, rubbing his hands together in order to get them warm, "She's endured worse."

Arthur gave the older man a look, "She lost her father," he spoke up, earning knowing looks from both men, "Don't know how much worse it could get on her," Arthur then lit a cigarette, taking a brief inhale, "Either way," Smoke billowed from his mouth, "She's gonna be rough for a while."

"That she is," Hosea agreed solemnly, "I trust that you'll be keeping her company through this trying time, Arthur?"

Arthur paused, holding the butt of the cigarette mere centimeters from his lips, glancing over to Dutch, then to Hosea, "Of course. Whatever's needed to keep morale up."

Hosea sent Dutch a sour look, whom in return, sent one back with splayed hands. He let out an exasperated sigh, "No, no…this isn't about morale, son," he placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, "This is about being there for a friend. I know," he paused, " _We_  know how close the two of you are."

Silent, Arthur took a drag off his cigarette. Of course he was going to be there for his friend. He would  _still_  be in the building if it weren't for being asked to leave by Mrs. Grimshaw. Which reminded him…Forrest's letter—that small piece of paper felt like an anvil was in his pocket. A part of him gnawed away at his subconscious, urgently wanting to read it, "If she needs my company, I'll be there," He finally spoke, "You have my word."

Hosea nodded, satisfied at his words.

The weather had worsened once more, causing the men to retreat back into their respective quarters. Arthur sat at a table beside a window, peering out into the night via candlelight. In his hands, he held the letter that Tilly had given him. He must've stared at it for hours, his mind buzzing with several different thoughts that made him wary of what Sophia's father would want him to do.

The envelope itself had been crumpled from being inside a pocket. Blood had been smeared across the left hand side, smudging out the 'A' in his name. Opening it with shaking hands, Arthur pulled a pair of neatly folded pieces of paper from within. Blood had seeped through the envelope staining the paper red. Having rested it between his fingers, he delicately peeled the papers apart as he began to read;

_Arthur, my boy,_

_I've contemplated this letter for several years now, to which this has been long overdue. I am assuming that this has reached you under the circumstances that I have perished on one of Dutch's harebrained schemes._

_For that, I am sorry._

_I'm sorry for you, and Dutch, and the rest of gang._

_Moreover, I'm especially sorry for Sophia._

_I ask that you don't mourn over the death of this old outlaw for I lived a great life. I raised my daughter the best way I knew how without her mother, and to see her flourish is my greatest achievement. I know in my heart that Sophia will mourn in her own way with me, just as she had mourned her mother, but she is strong-willed._

Arthur flipped the back page to the front. For a moment, he glanced up, thinking that he had heard a door open and close somewhere in the building he was in; he was mistaken. Arthur's chest squeezed painfully from either the letter or with grief—he wasn't sure. Licking his lips as an attempt to keep them from being chapped, he then dropped his gaze to the second page, and continued reading;

_Having watched the two of you grow up together, I feel that I had a hand in raising not only Sophia, but raising you as well. I trust that you will take care of her and her, you. Continue to look after her as you have all these years to ensure that she is safe. I have seen the way you search for her in a crowd, just as I see myself searching for Lily. The way the both of you interact—you truly care about each other._

_Arthur, my boy, there isn't a man that I trust to have my sweet Sophia's hand, yet it would be an honor to have_ _you_ _as a son. You're a good man, Arthur, despite what you think. You'd be a fine husband to Sophia, as she would be a good wife to you._

_As a dead man's wish, all I ask is that you take Sophia's hand in marriage._

_Take care, my boy. Keep the sun at your back and the enemy to your front._

_Forrest_

Tears fell onto the paper, smearing some of the words. Arthur swiped at his face with the arm of his jacket, "Damn you, Forrest," he muttered, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. He took a moment to sit in silence, rereading the last page as if he had misread something.

He hadn't.

Returning the letter inside the envelope, Arthur tucked it into the back of his journal, tucking it back into the inner pocket of his coat. It felt as if Atlas himself handed over the weight of the world to him. As much as it had pained him at the death of the man he sought as a father figure; Forrest was a fool in his own right to think that he was a good choice for Sophia. There were several others that were just as good of a man—if not better—than he was.

Once again, he swiped his face with the arm of his jacket to rid himself of tears. He inhaled sharply, holding his hand over his eyes. Exhaustion had crept back on him despite how vigilant he was to be called upon when Mrs. Grimshaw had Sophia stabilized. Instead, he rest his head on his arm, closing his eyes for just a  _short_  minute.

* * *

His head shot up hours later, noticing it was lighter out.

The wind hadn't let up.

"Shit," he muttered, getting up from his seat at the table. Exiting the building, the force of the wind caused him to stagger, holding the door before it slammed back on him. Closing it, he trudged across to the other building. Mrs. Grimshaw had emerged, only to pause upon seeing Arthur approaching.

"Oh, Mr. Morgan," She wrapped her coat tighter against herself, "I was coming to let you know about Miss. Mason."

Arthur held onto his hat after a gust of wind began to lift it off of his head, "How is she?"

Susan let out a heavy breath, "Sophia's doing just fine, Mr. Morgan. Exhausted from her journey… and is in pain from her injuries…but she'll pull through," She then shifted herself, giving the outlaw a good onceover, "She's asking for you."

His brows rose, "She's still up?"

"Fighting it if you want the right term," Susan tilted her head, "Stubborn as a mule, if you want complete honesty," Susan's mouth pursed good naturedly at her words, "Maybe seein'  _you_  will put her at ease."

* * *

Sophia Mason lay on a cot closest to the fireplace with the buffalo robe wrapped around her for added warmth. She felt like hell, as if she got behind a couple of the horses and got kicked on, and then quite possibly sat on by Willamson's draft horse, Brown Jack. Her body certainly had seen its better days according to the surges of pain that came and went with every small movement she made to gain some form of comfort.

To no avail, she didn't find any. Weak with exhaustion, Sophia shakily forced herself up with her good arm, a groan of pain left her as she doubled over holding her side after sitting upright.

"Sophia!" Abigail Roberts, her closest female friend in the group rose from her seat beside her son, Jack, moving across the room to her, "Don't sit up, you'll start bleeding again." The brunette gently placed a hand on her uninjured shoulder, worry evident on her face, "You're exhausted."

"I'll be alright," Sophia spoke through gritted teeth, "I just…I need to get up."

"And have Mrs. Grimshaw walk back in to see you try?" Abigail questioned with an arched brow, "She'd be after you and me both; you for your bullheadedness and me for allowing you to do so."

A ragged breath left Sophia's mouth as a form of a curt laugh, "She'd have to catch me, first."

"You wouldn't get far," her friend retorted with a laugh. Sophia returned the playful jab with another huff of breath, the corners of her mouth tipping in a tired smile. Abigail was right. She couldn't get far if she wanted to. Not with her body in the state that it was in.

Hell, it was a miracle she was able to make it  _here_  as is—wherever  _here_  was.

Sophia's gaze fell onto a new face; a blonde haired woman huddled along the wall. She appeared miserable, lost even. Karen and Tilly were beside her, talking to the woman and rubbing her back as she sobbed, "Who's that?"

Abigail turned to look at the blonde sadly, "That's Sadie Adler—she's new. Dutch, Micah, and Arthur brought her here after searching for supplies…a few O'Driscoll boys murdered her husband," she explained, returning her gaze to Sophia.

"That's a damn shame. Animals," Sophia murmured, "She's got a good, safe place now," she ran a hand across her face at first to keep herself awake. Her chest felt hollow with her own sense of grief in correlation to Sadie's. Her heart went out to her, "How's Davey fairing?"

Abigail cast her gaze to her lap, "He didn't make it. He died before we could get him to camp."

Sophia lowered her gaze in remorse for her fallen comrade, "That's a damn shame," she murmured, "He was a good man. Very reliable…It's bewildering almost to think that we've lost so many good people in such a short time…"

Sensing the change in her demeanor, Abigail placed a gentle hand over hers, squeezing it, "I'm sorry about your father, Sophia."

Steel gray eyes held Abigail's, "I am, too," she replied. Her voice thickened with the hint of crying, "He…" she took a deep breath, "He was a good man," Sophia turned her gaze to her lap, "I'm…thankful I had this long with him."

"John's been missin' for a few days," Abigail began, "The weather ain't let up. He's strong and he's smart—strong at least."

Sophia took Abigail's hand, "John knows how to get out of this weather," she spoke with confidence, "He's a crafty one—skilled. I'm sure he'll turn up soon once this weather's eased up."

Abigail smiled half-heartedly, "I hope so, Sophia. I've been so worried."

The door to the building opened, a blast of cold air billowed in that caused Sophia to shiver violently. Pain caused her to scrunch her face, pulling the hide closer to her frame as Mrs. Grimshaw had walked in, followed by Arthur Morgan shortly after.

"Good morning, Arthur," Karen and Tilly greeted the man in unison from their seat beside Mrs. Adler.

Arthur had taken off his hat to rid it of snow, acknowledging their greeting with a nod, "Mornin', ladies," his gruff voice reverberated around the room just as his boots caused the floor to shake minutely.

Mrs. Grimshaw had noticed Sophia's scrunched expression, blowing out a harsh breath, "Miss. Mason, what are you doing sitting up?" She chided, striding across the floor rather quickly, "You're  _supposed_  to be resting!"

"I'm alright, Mrs. Grimshaw—honest," Sophia's voice croaked out with a small smile after Abigail had risen from beside her, shaking her head at her friend's stubbornness.

She made her way back to Jack's side, passing Arthur, "Hello, Arthur," she greeted him.

He paused, "Hello, Abigail. Jack," he glanced to Sophia, "How is she?"

Abigail laughed lightly, shaking her head once more after watching the brunette and Mrs. Grimshaw banter for a moment, "Too stubborn for her own good," she surmised, folding her arms across her chest.

Arthur mulled over her words, "So I've heard…how're you and Jack holdin' up?"

Abigail looked over to her son, "We're doin' okay. Cold, but, I guess that's what comes with early spring…"

"It was nice talking to you, Abigail," he spoke curtly, moving closer to the two bantering women next to the fire, "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" he interrupted something that Mrs. Grimshaw was about to say, earning a sour expression from the older woman. The younger woman smiled to him, completely forgetting about the mild argument with Susan mere moments ago, "Mrs. Grimshaw, if I may…"

Not speaking, Mrs. Grimshaw looked at both of them, knowing that Arthur would settle the young woman to where she could rest properly. Leaving the two to converse, Arthur pulled up a chair close to Sophia, taking note of her appearance. Her usual, tanned appearance had been hindered with exhaustion and blood loss, no doubt—her skin was pale like a porcelain doll. Under her eyes were dark bags, scrapes and cuts littered her forehead and cheeks, and those soft, pouty lips of hers were pale and cracked from exposure. Long, brunette hair cascaded down her back and shoulders, framing her face—it was usually in a neat braid.

Her overall demeanor had changed the instant she had laid eyes on him. She shifted herself in the cot to sit straighter as he leaned to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. In turn, she extended her arm, brushing the pad of her thumb against his scarred chin, "You're a sight for sore eyes," she echoed, offering a tired smile to her friend.

She sounded so hoarse.

"How're you holdin' up?" Arthur asked her, leaning into her touch as a good deal of weight lifted from his shoulders.

Tired steel gray eyes held his momentarily. Sophia hadn't a need to speak. She was hurting in more ways than one, "I'm still alive," she responded, finally, in a light tone that cracked towards the end. Sophia retracted her hand back into the warmth of the hide, eyes flitting over Arthur's face with a sad smile that faded in moments, "I'm alone though."

His brows furrowed at her words, "What do you mean you're alone?" Arthur questioned.

Sophia held her lips in a thin line, "I ain't got nobody, Arthur," she began, "Momma died when we were kids…Daddy's gone now—it's just me."

"Ah, now, Soph…don't say that," Arthur began placing a hand against her cheek, stroking the rise of her cheek with the pad of his thumb, "You ain't alone…you-you got me, and  _Abigail_ , Hosea and Dutch…" His words fell short. He could feel his heart sink upon seeing her eyes become watery. Her bottom lip trembled and she bowed her head, sniffling, "Soph," Her hand enveloped his against her cheek as she looked back up with tears sliding down her face.

She let out an embarrassed breath, "I'm sorry," she murmured, smiling at him despite her chin trembling. She took her good hand and wiped away rogue tears, "I just…I just wished things turned out differently, you know?" Her eyes fell once again, more tears escaped as another shaky breath passed her lips.

"I understand," he replied, watching his friend battle her emotions. Arthur knew how it felt to be alone and wanting a different turn out; Mary, Eliza, and Isaac were a couple of these instances. He silently took his bandana from around his neck and gently wiped away the tears on her face, fully aware that there were prying eyes around them. He didn't much care what others thought or were thinking of them—it was none of their concern, "Mrs. Grimshaw's been tellin' me that you ain't been to sleep yet."

"I ain't tired," Sophia muttered, using the back of her hand to swipe at her cheek, "I just… _can't_. I start to, but then I see 'im, Arthur."

Arthur frowned, "Soph, I understand you're hurtin'. I know that," he watched her wipe away more tears that escaped with his bandana, "but I need you to try and get some rest—that way you can heal. You'll deal with the pain; you learn to…it's just the way things are."

"I know," Sophia replied, wiping away more. It tore him up to see her upset. Her lips trembled while more silent tears escaped.

"Then, get some rest and heal," He leaned closer to her, wiping more tears from her cheeks with the backs of his fingers, "I don't think I can handle a few weeks of being partnered with Micah—I'll kill the little son of a bitch."

Sophia laughed quietly, grinning at his words, "Maybe that's a good thing."

"On second thought, maybe I will…" Arthur began with a mischievous grin until Sophia swatted his arm with her good hand, then winced from the sudden movement, "Feel better?"

"Hush your mouth, Morgan," Sophia gritted out with a pained laugh. The both of them giggled at each other before Sophia let out a yawn, "I think I'll take you up on that offer to sleep…" She held his bandana in her hands, wiping away a lone tear before she offered it back.

"Hold on to it for me," Arthur squeezed her hand before he stood up, "I gotta do a few things, sweetheart. After I get back, I'll check on you." Sophia nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. Arthur helped her lay back in the cot, tucking the hide around her before he turned to leave the cabin. Arthur shifted his shoulders, placing his hat atop his head.

Abigail met him by the door, shifting anxiously, "Arthur…I need you to…" She stammered out, earning a sigh from him, "I-I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry to ask but…"

"It's little John," He finished for her in a condescending tone—a complete opposite of how he had just spoken to Sophia, "he's got himself caught into a scrape again."

Abigail furrowed her brows, angry, "He ain't been seen in two…" she took a deep breath, lowering her voice, "two days."

"Your John'll be fine," he assured, splaying his arms, "I mean, he may be dumb as rocks and as dull as rusted iron, but that ain't changing because he got caught in a snowstorm." Arguing with Abigail over John Marston was the last thing he wanted to do. It was evident that she was deeply worried about the dumbass, which was incomprehensible to him, especially after disappearing on them for a year—to avoid being a father to that boy of his. Arthur's opinion on the younger man hadn't changed much since his return, however, since he's been missing in the last two days; old opinions were making themselves at home once again.

"At least go take a look," Hosea had stepped in, approaching from the back of the cabin with a book in his hand. Arthur glanced, seeing Jack sitting along the back wall, "Javier?"

A fellow outlaw raised his head, looking toward the older man with smoke billowing from his mouth, "Yes?"

"Javier, will you ride out with Arthur to take a look for John?" Hosea requested, pausing beside Sophia, who had sat back up again, exhaustion becoming increasingly evident on her visage, "You're the two best fit men we've got."

"Now?" Javier asked.

"She's…" Hosea began, glancing to Abigail, "We're…all pretty worried about him."

Arthur remained silent, giving them both an onceover.

"I'll go with Javier, Hosea," Sophia offered with a wince. Arthur couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Like hell you are," Arthur pointed his hand at her, scowling, "You're not doing no such thing, Mason."

Sophia shot him a withering look, "If you're so bullheaded to go out and look for Marston, then I'll go with Javier." She swung her legs over the cot, secretly thankful that the girls left her clothes on, "I'll rest when I get back." She glanced to Javier, who had been smirking at the game she was playing, "I need my boots."

"You don't need them, cause you're not going!" Arthur's voice rose, taking a step closer to her.

Javier then stood up, holding a hand out to stop him, "Whoa, now  _compadre_ , she has as much say in this matter. If she wants to take your place, let her." Arthur gave Javier a glare, nostrils flaring with his rising temper. Javier stared him down as level-headed as he could be, smirking.

By now, Sophia had slowly risen to her feet allowing the buffalo hide to fall in a heap. Her body shook like a newborn foal trying to stand while she held onto Hosea's arm to prove a point. Arthur glared at her,  _knowing_  she had to be up to something. As much as he  _hated_  it, he knew whatever that devil woman was trying—it was working.

It always did.

"I know if the situation was reversed, he'd look for me," Javier spoke, holding out a pistol to him, "I mean, if Sophia wants to go—"

Arthur took the pistol from him, "Get your horse," his voice growled, clearly fed up with being outnumbered. Javier passed him to head out, casting a wink to Sophia.

"Thank you. Thank you," Abigail said loud enough for Javier to hear.

Arthur glowered at Abigail, then to Sophia, who stood with a defiant, yet smug, look on her face. He shook his head at them both, turning to leave, "These goddamn devil women," Arthur ground out before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Sophia let out a shaky breath, laughing to herself lightly, "Hosea…I need help back to the cot."

Hosea chuckled, "Sure thing…" he placed a hand at the small of her back, assisting her as she sat down. He turned to pick the buffalo hide from the floor, draping it around her shoulders, "Twenty-one years and that trick still works…"

"You'd think he'd catch on by now," Sophia laughed wearily, wrapping the hide against her once more.

"He has—the boy's just sweet on you," Hosea assured in a low voice, offering her a knowing smile, "He's just too stubborn to see it."

"I don't think he is," Sophia replied with a small frown after he left to return to Jack, "but, one can hope."

Abigail approached her once again, "Thank you, Sophia."

"I'd be out there if I were able," she replied, "Arthur means well, but…"

"He's as stubborn as you are," Abigail smiled to her, "I just hope John is alright."

"I'm sure he is," Sophia reassured, picking up her feet to lie back down on the cot, "I'm gonna do my best to rest now, Abigail."

Her friend kissed her forehead, "Thank you again."

* * *

Having mounted up, Javier and Arthur left camp, "This way," Javier began, "Last I know, John was headed up the river."

"For all we know, he kept riding north and never looked back," Arthur retorted, bowing the tip of his hat to keep the wind from blowing in his face.

"He wouldn't leave. Not like that," Javier replied from his paint.

Arthur thought different, "Well, wouldn't be the first time."

Both men ascended up the slope in the general direction of which John had last went. Neither of them had spoken for a while for the wind had all but drowned out any sound. Coming up to a river, they rode alongside it for a ways, topping out at the zenith of a hill.

"Hey, I see some smoke," Javier alerted, motioning to a wisp up ahead, "Come on, let's take a look."

"Let's hope it ain't more of O'Driscoll's boys," Arthur responded. Javier had been correct on seeing smoke, having dismounted from his horse to examine the small camp.

"Well, seems somebody left…" Javier kneeled to examine near a log closer, "recently. And," he straightened up, pointing up the mountain, "that way." He returned to his horse.

"Sure, well, come on then," Arthur urged, more than ready to get out of this weather.

"There's some tracks leading to the river," Javier explained, leading the way as they approached a shallow crossing, "Let's cross." The black paint he was riding took a tentative step into the flowing water, Javier gesturing to half-hidden tracks in the snow on the other side, "See, they continue up that way."

Arthur squinted, barely catching the tracks through the wind and snow. Sure, he was good at tracking, but in weather like this, even the best had some trouble, "Do you think it's John?" he questioned, easing his paint beside Javier's.

"You tell me," he responded, "These are horses tracks for sure, but…could be anyone," The horse lurched forward to gain some speed up the slope, "Let's just see where they lead."

"So…you were there, Javier, what really happened on that boat?" Arthur questioned. Things still didn't add up quite right from Dutch's side, which was very little.

"We had the money, it seemed fine…" Javier began, "then suddenly they were everywhere."

His brows furrowed, "Bounty hunters?"

"No, Pinkertons," came his reply, "It was crazy—raining bullets," They pushed their horses further, "That Sophia…bringing her father and being shot after all this?" Arthur could see him shake his head, "She's tough. I still can't believe that Forrest didn't make it."

"Me too," Arthur agreed, feeling that gnawing sensation at the pit of his stomach.

"Has he really been with Dutch since the beginning?" Javier questioned.

Arthur met his questioning gaze, "Yeah, as far as I know—him, his late wife, and Sophia have been with Dutch before Dutch even found me."

"Forrest being married…" Javier surmised, "That's hard to believe! What happened to her—she get tired of him?" He asked with a chuckle.

A pang of anger welled in Arthur's chest, " _No_ , she got sick a few years later, about a year after I came into the picture…she didn't make it."

The smile on Javier's face vanished, nodding as he quickly backtracked, "Oh…I see. Must've been tough."

"It was…for a while," Arthur remembered that clearly.

He remembered how hard it was on Forrest—raising a daughter in a man's world. Dutch and Hosea helped when they could, just as he helped with him and Sophia when he could. The gang had a hand in raising both of them in all retrospect.

Even Mrs. Grimshaw tried valiantly to integrate her into a proper lady, but Sophia was too wild for her to handle—her only failed pupil, and the cause of the tightrope on the other girls in the group. Arthur smirked at the memory, remembering all too well how flustered Susan Grimshaw had been with the girl of twelve.

He could see Forrest's expression clear as day after him, Dutch, and himself returned from scouting a potential haul after Mrs. Grimshaw threw her hands up at him, claiming that she didn't have a place as a lady. The way that girl's eyes lit up when Forrest told her that she'd learn how to hold a gun properly and defend herself was a sight to behold. Forrest had spoken to Dutch and Hosea about her joining in on the haul if she got good enough beforehand; the incident with Mrs. Grimshaw was just happenstance.

"Take it slow," Javier called out, "big ravine here."

Arthur blinked, remembering that he and Javier were out to locate John. Javier was right. To his left, a deep ravine loomed ahead, easily hidden with the cover of the wind and snow. It would've been an easy way to the grave to someone if they hadn't been paying attention.

"Dutch killed a girl in a…" Javier revealed as both of them rode alongside the ravine, "bad way, but it was a bad situation."

Arthur was appalled, "That ain't like him, though."

"Tracks go left," He announced, guiding his horse along a slope that bridged across the ravine, "down here."

Arthur trailed close behind, ensuring that he and his horse were close enough to a stable part of the mountain and not on the edge near the crevasse.

"Davey got shot," Esquela continued, "Mac, Forrest, Sophia, and John…all shot too. Sean, we don't even know—I'm surprised we escaped at all. By the time you boys showed up from the other side of town we were only just holding on."

A heavy sigh passed from Arthur's lips, "Bad business alright." Rounding a bend, ascending the mountain further—Arthur could feel the temperature drop significantly and the wind grow increasingly powerful, "Damn snow's coming in hard again."

"We'll lose these tracks if we don't move fast," Javier warned as they came between two outcroppings that had shielded the current of air, "Careful, it's getting narrow here," he announced ahead.

It was indeed narrow.

His horse protested, faltering behind Javier and let out a screech. Arthur pulled up on his reigns, "Come on, boy," urging the horse to continue, "The horses are struggling."

"Yeah, it's a bit of fresh snow here," Javier deduced, eyes to the ground in search of tracks.

"I don't know about this Javier," Arthur shook his head at the man, he knew when it was time to throw the ropes in, and it was getting close to it, "W-we can't follow nothing."

"Let's push on a little bit," Javier advised, "maybe we'll pick up the trail again."

Once again, Arthur's horse protested, shaking it's head as it trudged on up the slope behind Javier, snorting. Arthur patted the paint's neck, "Almost there, boy, come on, now!"

Wherever  _almost_  was.

Something up ahead had caught Javier's eyes, "Hey, look!" he gestured to an outline, "Over there, you see that?" Arthur squinted seeing a form lying in the snow, crows were perched on it as the both of them approached.

It had once been a horse.

"John was riding that horse when we left Blackwater," Javier spoke lightly, turning his eyes to his surroundings.

Despite what he thought about John, a pit began to form in his stomach, "Oh…that's…"

"Let's see if he can hear us," Javier suggested. Lifting up his pistol, Javier fired off a shot into the air. The crack of the pistol firing echoed down the mountain and its surrounding areas.

Very faintly, they heard a voice yelling off in the distance, "Hey! Help! Here!"

"Come on," Javier pointed up the slope, "up there!" He dug his heels into the horse's side, urging it forward for a final push.

The voice continued to shout, "Hello? Over here!"

Up ahead, Javier dismounted his horse, turning to Arthur, "It's coming from up ahead somewhere." Arthur dismounted as well, "I don't think we can go much further on the horses. We'll have to walk from here—I'd grab that shotgun from your horse. Who knows what's up ahead."

Arthur nodded, taking the weapon that had been strapped to his horse. Both men slowly descended an incline, fully aware of the danger of losing one's footing. Arthur shivered from the cold and from the thought of meeting fate early by a stupid mistake such as footing.

"Watch out here," Javier must've hit a slick patch, quickly regaining his balance. Arthur completely sidestepped the area, keeping a close watch on where he was sure to step, " _Mierda,_  we're high up here."

"You're telling me," Arthur responded.

The same voice was heard again, this time it was slightly closer, " _Help me_!"

Another gust of wind felt like it had nearly cut Arthur in two. He wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling in at his coat for warmth as a violent shiver wracked through—anyone up here had to be a goddamn fool. Shaking his arms out, Arthur cussed John under his breath for being that goddamned fool. If it weren't John, then whoever it was is going to end up with a fist to the face or a bullet to the gut and left up here—Arthur just wasn't sure what he was deciding on just yet.

"Drops down here," Javier alerted jumping down a small ledge and onto another, "watch yourself,"

Arthur dropped down, following close behind.

Javier half-slid down another slope, "It's slippery, be careful," then came to an overhang that had to have been waist high, "Watch your head here."

Crouching, they came around a corner and up a bank until they could straighten up. Arthur felt his feet slip out from under him, quickly catching himself on the rock wall—heart pounding against his chest, "Watch your step, this is real slippery."

"Stay close to the wall," Javier replied, doing about the same as he was—clinging to the rock facing every so often until he gestured to a ledge, "Up here, come on."

Hoisting himself up, Arthur and Javier made it to another rocky outcropping.

"Hey! Over here!" John's voice became distinct now. He was somewhere close by.

"We're coming John!" Javier yelled out.

After hoisting himself up two ledges, Arthur couldn't feel his hands or his feet anymore—they felt numb. This wind only made him feel worse. He followed close behind Javier, shivering once again, "Damn, it's cold."

Javier and he took a moment to take a short break in between two boulders that had kept the wind at bay; Javier pulling out a half-empty bottle of liquor. Uncapping it, Javier took a good swallow, handing it over to Arthur, "This should help warm you up."

Arthur took it, downing the rest in a large swallow. The liquor burned going down until his middle felt a fraction better than what it did, wiping a hand along his mouth, "Thanks."

He nodded, "Let's keep moving then, come on."

Entering back into the current of wind, John's yells became closer.

"John!" Arthur yelled out.

"John, can you hear me?" Javier yelled out as well, "John?"

Walking up another slope, Arthur grimaced at the cold, "John, you there?"

Seconds ticked by until John yelled again, "I'm here! Out on the ledge!"

"That's John!" Javier said, picking up the pace, "We're coming!" He shouted out to John.

"You fellers there?" John hollered out, "Over here!"

" _Alright,_  pipe down, Marston!" Arthur yelled out, coming up to Javier, who had stopped, gesturing to a ledge. Coming to the edge of it, Arthur peered down to see John Marston peering back up at them. Blood was running down his face from deep scratches on the side of his cheek, "That's quite a scratch you got there," Arthur taunted with a smug expression on face.

Relieved, John laughed wearily, "Never thought I'd say this, but, it's good to see you, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur dropped down onto the ledge, kneeling to assess John, "You don't look so good."

John shook his head, "I don't feel so good neither." Arthur stepped in front of him, offering John a hand to stand up and hoisted him over his shoulder, "I'm freezing." Arthur moved closer to the ledge so that Javier could get a grip around his waist, pulling him from Arthur. John let out a groan of pain, face scrunching.

"Don't die just yet, cowboy," Arthur drawled, hoisting himself up from the ledge as Javier wrapped John's arm around his neck to use him as a crutch.

"Come on, compadre," Javier insisted, helping maneuver John back onto Arthur's shoulder. Javier took a moment to assess where they were at, sighing, "Well, we can't go back the way we came. Let's try this way," he suggested, heading up a nearby slope.

"Ain't you a sorry sight?" Arthur commented, glancing to John's mangled appearance.

"Can't…" he winced, "argue with you there."

"See? I  _told_  Dutch you weren't the right man for this," Arthur antagonized.

"I'm sure you did," John muttered, relieved that he was found. Hearing Arthur Morgan's bitching sounded like a godsend at the moment. Arthur shifted his weight, earning a pained groan from him.

"You alright?" Javier asked.

"I think so," John replied.

"Hopefully this will lead us out," Javier spoke, following the slope up and back onto the mountain face. Ahead, Arthur could pick out the outlines of the horses until seeing Javier halt, "You see that on the ridge?"

Turning his gaze to the ridge, three forms stood statuesque until an eerie howl emitted from the middle—wolves.

" _Sh_ it," Arthur muttered as Javier turned back to him, "You head for the horses; I'll keep John's friends off until you're clear."

"Alright, John, come on," Javier told the injured man, "Let's get you on that horse."

Arthur trudged forward, shotgun in his hands. Around the outcropping from where the wolves had been, they came bounding forward like snarling wraiths. Raising the sawed-off shotgun, he fired at the first wolf that had lunged his way—teeth bared. With a loud blast, the wolf crumpled at his feet as the other two surged forward, snapping. Arthur's heart pounded in his chest, keeping a close watch on the two mongrels, as well as ensuring that Javier was able to get John to the horses safely. There was no way that he was going to be taken out by two overgrown dogs, let alone tore up by one—he'd never hear the end of it by Marston  _and_ Sophia.

One of the wolves got close enough for Arthur to fire another round off into it's side, sending the animal rolling downhill a ways, yelping out in pain. It ran off, surely to die, while Arthur scrambled to load another two rounds. The last remaining wolf knocked him off his feet; snapping its long canines together after Arthur grabbed its throat to stave it off from clamping down on his own.

"You son of a bitch!" Arthur ground out, knocking the wolf away in order to regain his footing. As quickly as it fell, it came back for another assault, this time, it latched itself to his arm—shaking it vehemently, "Get off me!" Arthur kicked it, hearing a yelp from it before he was able to get an aim on the animal and fired.

"Okay, let's get going before more of these bastards show up!" Javier yelled up ahead, having got John on the back of his horse. Arthur made it to his, quickly mounting the paint as the both made their way back down the mountain, "Let's get back to the others," he hollered.

"I don't feel too good," John mumbled out.

Javier glanced to him, "You'll be fine, it's just like a…a dog bite."

"I knew a feller, got bit by a dog.  _Died_  an hour later," John croaked out.

"You ain't gonna die," Javier assured him with a shake of his head, "Not yet." The three of them were making good time off the mountain, shortly before Javier pointed to the side, "Up there…more of them!"

Two more wolves came surging down the side of the mountain; snarling and snapping at the horse's heels.

John kicked at one, "Get out of here!"

Arthur aimed at the closest wolf, firing. Crumpling, the second wolf got tripped up, falling behind a hair before it quickly gained on them.

"Get the hell out of here! Get out!" John yelled once more.

"Shit, there's more on the right!" Javier cursed, aiming a pistol and firing at one of them. Another wolf got to close to Arthur's horse, fumbling underneath it while the stallion trampled it—fatally wounding the animal, "We got more wolves on the left!"

Arthur cursed. The more that was going on, the more pissed off he was becoming. He quickly learned to hate these sons of bitches, aiming and firing at another. He was met with another screeching yelp, the wolf crumpling and falling behind as he reloaded his shotgun once again. Up ahead, Javier fired off another round at a quickly encroaching wolf—wounding it so that it got trampled by Arthur's horse shortly after.

By now, night had all but fallen as Arthur and Javier looked around them to ensure there were no more wolves in the area.

"You see anymore, Arthur?" Javier hollered back to Arthur.

He shook his head, "Don't think so." He responded.

John jerked wrong, " _Jesus_ ,"

"You still with us, Marston?" Arthur questioned with an arched brow.

The younger man nodded, "Just about," he gritted out.

"You're gonna be okay," Javier assured him, "We have some shelter now."

They rode until their surroundings were becoming more familiar, even with the quickly fading light.

"Thanks for coming for me," John spoke loud enough.

"Of course," Javier commented, "That bullet in Blackwater, now this? You had a hell of time."

"And Arthur always says…I'm lucky," John surmised through a pained laugh.

"None of us are lucky right now," Javier replied.

John yelled back to Arthur, "Have you heard from Sophia and Forrest, Arthur?"

"Yeah, she turned up last night," Arthur replied, "She was in bad shape—shot twice."

"Damn," John shook his head, "What about Forrest?"

Arthur fell silent for a beat, "Didn't make it."

"No," John's voice held shock, "He's not-."

"Sophia brought him on a sled last night," Javier affirmed before turning his head to speak to Arthur, "We should ride in the water for a bit, try to lose the scent. Don't want to leave a trail right back to camp." He then suggested, directing his horse into the shallow part of the river.

Arthur did the same, listening to the horses slosh in the water for a bit, "You know, we're gonna have to come up with a better story for that scar," Arthur hollered out to John.

"So, freezing, bleeding, starving, damn near getting eaten to death, ain't good enough for you?" John questioned up ahead.

Arthur left that unanswered.

"Here, let's cross to the left," Javier gestured.

"Yeah, come on." Arthur agreed, "Let's push hard and get back." He could see the faint outline of the camp up ahead. Doing so, he dug his heels into his horse, pushing it.

"You see those building up ahead John?" Javier asked, "That's where we're camped. Nearly there," Riding into camp, Javier shouted, "Come on! Somebody get John off this horse."

"Can we get some help here?" Arthur shouted, "We need some help!"

Stopping in front of the building, Hosea, Herr Strauss, and Abigail emerged. Abigail ran forward, coming her mouth; ecstatic that he was alive, "You're alive!" She cried out, "Oh you're alive!"

Hosea and Herr Strauss carefully helped him off Javier's horse, "Easy now. Careful."

"Ay, careful  _idiotas,_ it's his leg," Javier chided upon John groaning in pain.

"Come on, let's get you warm," Abigail ushered John into the building, pausing and turning to both men, "Thank you. Thank you both." Entering the building, Abigail chided John, "This is a new low, even to your standards."

"Thank you, Arthur. Thank you." Javier spoke with flamboyance.

Arthur chuckled, "You got any other lost maidens need saving?" He asked Hosea, as Javier tipped his hat, heading for the shelter of his quarters.

Hosea shook his head, "Not today."

Arthur then turned to Hosea, "Have you and Dutch talked about how we're gonna get out of this?"

Hosea shoved his hands into his coat pocket, "I was just discussing with Herr Strauss when the weather breaks I supposed we'll have to keep heading east."

" _East?_ " Arthur was bewildered at the news, "Into all that…that civilization?"

"I know," Hosea responded, irritated just as he was, "The west is where our problems are worse."

Arthur nodded, unhappy about the decision, but understanding of why it was what it was.

"Come on, Herr Strauss," Hosea ushered, "Let's get warm."

Herr Strauss gave Arthur a nod, "Thank you, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur shivered, remembering that he, himself, was freezing and that he was supposed to check on Sophia when he got back, "Herr Strauss," the thin man paused in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan?"

"Hold the door, won't you? I, uh, gotta check on someone," Arthur mumbled, following behind the German man. Upon entering, Arthur's eyes scanned the room, almost instantly finding who he'd been searching for. Sophia was sitting with Jack, reading to him as the two were covered in the same buffalo hide. She hadn't noticed him entering, engrossed on reading a few lines from  _The Jungle Book_.

He leaned against the wall, not quite yet detectable, but enthralled just as Jack was at her flamboyant orchestrations.

"' _The Wolves are a free people,' said Father Wolf. 'They take orders from the Head of the Pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer. The man's cub is ours—to kill if we choose.'_ " She read, stooping her head close to Jack's with a smile,  _"'Ye choose and ye do not choose! What talk is this of choosing? By the bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dog's den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak!' The tiger's roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan_."

Jack gasped, huddling closer to Sophia as she paused, smiling tenderly to the boy. She tucked him closer to her, allowing him to rest his head on her chest,  _"'And it is I, Raksha [The Demon, who answers. The man's cub is mine, Lungri—mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs—frog-eater— fish-killer—he shall hunt thee! Now get hence, or by the Sambhur that I killed (I eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!'_ "

Jack's eyes got wide with excitement, "Did Mother Wolf run him away, Aunt Sophia? Did she?"

Sophia laughed at the boy, glancing up to catch Arthur staring at her from his place. A grin spreading across her face after looking back to Jack caused Arthur's eyes widened a fraction. His heart skipped a beat, mortified that he had been caught. He scratched the back of his neck, averting his eyes. His face felt like he had stuck it in a fire, which was what he contemplated doing anyways, "Maybe we'll find that out another time." He heard her say.

Jack deflated, "Aw, do we have to?"

"Ah, now, don't leave the little feller hanging on somethin' like that, Soph," Arthur approached to the two, clearing his throat with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I kinda want to hear what happens myself."

Jack gasped, grinning to Arthur, "Please, Aunt Sophia. Can we find out,  _please_? Even Uncle Arthur wants to know!"

Sophia met Arthur's gaze, smiling to him, "Maybe Uncle Arthur can read it next?"

Arthur's brows rose, "Now, I-I don't know bout—"

"Yes, Uncle Arthur, read it!" Jack insisted, taking the book from Sophia and held it up to Arthur, who reluctantly took it, sitting beside Jack and Sophia.

"Alright, where were you?" Arthur grumbled, scanning the page for the last thing Sophia had said, "The damn writin' is so small," One of her slender fingers pointed to the place, earning an embarrassed glance from Arthur, "Oh…yeah, right."

He cleared his throat, reading the passage, " _Father Wolf looked on amazed. He had almost forgotten the days when he won Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the Pack and was not called The Demon for compliment's sake._ "

Arthur glanced over to Sophia who had been watching him with adoration on her face. His heart skipped a beat once again upon being caught, quickly averting his gaze, and returned back to the book, " _Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, but he could not stand up against Mother Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death. So he backed out of the cave mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted: 'Each dog barks in his own yard! We will see what the Pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs. The cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, O bushtailed thieves!'_ "

"What happens next?" Jack asked eagerly, leaning over Arthur's arm, eager to see what the book entailed despite not quite being able to read himself.

Sophia laughed lightly to him, "I believe it's time for bed."

Jack groaned in protest, "Do I have to?"

"Of course you do," Sophia told him with a smile, "That's what makes you grow, before you know it, you'll be bigger than your daddy—maybe even Uncle Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes at Sophia's words. Anyone could be bigger than John.  _She_  was bigger than John.

"Could I really?" Jack turned to Arthur.

Arthur blinked, realizing that all eyes were on him, " _Sure_. Of course, you could. Listen to your Aunt Sophie, now." He hopped out from between them, going over to Abigail—who had been chiding John—talking excitedly to her. Abigail looked up to the two of them, smiling before she nodded to Jack, who had been tugging at her hand to a cot where she then covered him up with a thick blanket, "You realize a piss ant is bigger than John, right?" He jested, inching himself closer to the woman beside him.

Sophia swatted his shoulder, "You are an absolute devil sometimes, Mr. Morgan."

"I should say the same about  _you_ , Ms. Mason," Arthur countered, nudging her gently.

Her brows rose with a feigning look of innocence, "Whatever do you mean?  _Me_?" She placed her hand on her chest, "A  _devil_? Surely not," She then placed her hands in her lap, leaning over to him with a smug grin, "You must have me mistaken. After all, I have an unfortunate face."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, " _Sure_." He nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at his gruff visage, exhaling a little too loud than what he wanted, "…You look better this evening, sweetheart."

"I may  _appear_  better," Sophia began with pursed lips, "But I feel like I got kicked by a team of horses, and then  _sat on_  by Brown Jack."

"Oh. Well…" Arthur tilted his head, making a face, "That doesn't sound very pleasant."

"Well. I can assure you, that it is not," She grinned to Arthur like a fool, in turn, he started chuckling to himself, "If anything, I hurt like hell…I did get  _some_  sleep though."

Arthur nodded, pleased to hear the news, "Good. It's about time you listen to me."

Sophia snorted from beside him, "I'd listen to a mute's speech before I'd listen to you."

"Harsh words coming from a  _lady_ ," Arthur retorted, grinning at her.

Sophia arched her brow at him, "I may be a  _woman_ , but I ain't no  _lady_."

Arthur chuckled, allowing himself to fully take in her appearance as did she. Sophia retained an exhausted look, which was to be expected. Having slept some, her energy and mood altogether had improved, as well as  _some_  color returning to her face once again.

Silent, Sophia reached with her hurt arm to run her thumb across the scar on his chin; however, she barely could raise it without scrunching her face in pain. Arthur leaned closer and lowered his chin enough so she could. For as long as he's had it, something as ugly as the scar on his chin being adored by someone as pretty as she was, floored him.

"Why do you like this ugly, old thing so much?" He mumbled, meeting her gaze of adoration.

"Something that's ugly to one, can be something beautiful to another," Sophia replied, "I like all your scars."

"I don't understand why," Arthur shook his head slowly, "Ain't nothing pretty about them," he grunted out until her thumb left his chin and slowly traced others that were scattered across his face. He watched her eyes flicker to each one, stroking it tenderly with a gentle smile gracing her tired features. Arthur could feel his heart begin to pound within his chest like he had just sprinted up a hill, but the way she stroked his face made him feel like he could sit and let her do that all day.

He stayed beside Sophia until people were ready to turn in. By then, Sophia had grown tired, dozing off shortly after resting her head on his shoulder and lacing her arm with his. Slowly prying his arm from around hers, he gently wrapped the buffalo hide around her tighter, lying her down into the cot and placed another gentle kiss on her forehead.

Had it not been for the threat of Mrs. Grimshaw possibly beating him to death, Arthur would've stayed by her side for the remainder of the night. Arthur straightened up and turned to head to his quarters across the way. He remained awake however, sitting at the table and rereading the last wishes of a dead outlaw once again. His mind scurrying around each word he had written.

Then it hit him.

What Forrest meant in his letter— _truly caring for each other_. It wasn't a secret that Arthur did  _truly_  care about Sophia. In the back of his mind,  _truly caring_   _for each other_ was the equivalent to loving each other; which was something that he tried hard to stay away from. To him, love ended up getting him hurt worse than what any damage a bullet could do.

In fact, he preferred a bullet.

The real question though—did he  _love_  Sophia?

Scrubbing his face with a hand, Arthur shook his head lighting a cigarette. He recounted his interaction with Sophia mere hours ago, feeling his heart rate quicken at the thought of her gentle touch on his face once again. Being honest with himself, those small interactions had become somewhat of a guilty pleasure  _to_  him despite the fact it had to do with something as ugly as  _scars on him_.

He took a drag off the cigarette, turning to his journal. Flipping through pages, Arthur began to notice small things about his entries. Sure, he had written about the happenings of the group, the deal down in Blackwater going sideways, and little sketches of things that had caught his eye like animals and shrubbery and the occasional train—but every other page had a sketch of Sophia or an entry detailing something about a small thing she had done that was obviously a big deal to him.

"Oh, come on," he muttered, touching the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag off it. He ran a calloused hand through his hair, even scratching at the back of his neck as the wheels in his head turned. Blowing the smoke out, Arthur shook his head once again with furrowed brows, frustrated at himself at the glaring truth, "You damn fool," he flipped back a page or two, to an image he had sketched only days ago of Sophia in Blackwater sitting under a tree with a book in her hands. Her head was bowed, entranced in the book, holding her braid with a hand as she read—the image forever capturing that peaceful moment.

Realizing he had been smiling at it like a damn fool, he blew out a harsh breath, eyes turning to the emptiness outside. Truth finally was…Arthur did, in fact, love Sophia.

And that scared him.

* * *

**This wraps up chapter two! I hope y'all enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter, and how you like Sophia! Obviously, I don't own any of the characters of RDR2, but I do own Sophia. Nor do I own _The Jungle Book_  or any of its characters.**

**Once again, I thank each and everyone one of you guys.**


	4. The Aftermath of Genesis

**WARNING: This chapter contains material that some would deem uncomfortable (hunting, animal death, gore). If it does, you are more than welcome to skip. I will have triple asterisks (***) signaling when it starts and when it ends. Thank you!**

* * *

A couple of days had passed since Arthur and Javier successfully rescued John from the mountain. The weather since then had calmed down considerably causing movement between the few buildings to increase. People were getting anxious to move, mostly due to the lack of provisions and food, but partially due to word getting around that they were about to start heading East into civilization.

Sophia had grown anxious to move around herself, having rested on and off for the last few days. She was more than motivated to get out. Her right shoulder was still immovable from being shot, however, the stitches in her side had become literal thorns in her side. They itched immensely, often catching herself rubbing the area voraciously until it began to hurt.

Upon seeing how the sun was beginning to peek through the overcast skies, Sophia decided then and there that she was going to go outside. Pulling her boots on and her coat, Sophia made her way to the door.

"And where do you think you're going, Ms. Mason?" Mrs. Grimshaw questioned from her seat with a raised brow.

Sophia turned with an innocent expression on her visage, "I want to check on Othello—I've not been able to take care of him since I made it here a few days ago."

The older woman looked her over closely, pursing her lips, "No funny business?"

She shook her head, then paused, curious, "By funny business, you mean…"

"Lifting and pulling on heavy objects…shoveling…" she sighed out, "I'd hate to have to stitch you up again out of your stubbornness."

"Oh. No, just strictly brushing and feeding, ma'am," Sophia replied honestly, reaching with her good arm for the door, "I'll be back shortly."

Mrs. Grimshaw nodded at her words, "Sophia, I've known you a long time," she began, "The words,  _I'll be back shortly_ , frighten me to some extent."

Sophia smiled, bowing her head as a quiet chuckle passed her lips, "I'm aware, Mrs. Grimshaw—you have my word."

"Now you're sounding like Mr. Morgan," She chuckled, taking a sip of coffee.

Leaving the shelter of the building, Sophia squinted at the sudden change of brightness, rubbing her eyes to rid herself of the aching feeling they had gotten. It took a few moments to become adjusted, looking around her to gain a layout of the campsite. Wherever it was exactly, it was surely beautiful being covered in thick snow. The West Grizzlies in general were always beautiful, even from afar.

Sophia pulled her coat closer to her form, watching the steam of her breath billow out like smoke from the stack of a train. The air around her was crisp, a little sharp on the first couple intakes, but eased off shortly after. She set off in the direction of where the horses had been hitched to, searching for the gray dapple that had once belonged to her father. Picking her way through the trails that others had cut through the snow, she easily found Othello standing idly beside Taima, Charles' appaloosa mare, and new addition—a bay paint.

"Hey boy," She greeted, watching as the stallion's ears swiveled to the source of the sound. He craned his neck to look, nickering softly at the familiar voice, "How you doing, boy? You doing okay?" She stroked his muzzle with her good hand before getting under his jaw to scratch his favorite place. The stallion lifted his head and leaned into the scratch, grunting as she traveled toward his neck.

Approaching footsteps alerted her, "Good morning," she called out, while continuing scratching Othello's jaw.

The footsteps halted, "I didn't expect you to be out here, Miss. Mason," a familiar voice spoke from her right.

Sophia peered from under Othello's neck to see Charles Smith carrying half a bale of hay. She smiled to him, ducking under Othello's head to greet him properly, "As sure as the sun is shining, I'll be out, Mr. Smith."

"I'm glad to see that you're doing well," He grunted, setting the say amongst the horses, "It's almost hard to believe Mrs. Grimshaw let you out of her sight.

She laughed, "She almost didn't," Sophia placed a hand on Othello's side, "Not allowed to lift on heavy objects or pull…or shovel."

Charles chuckled, lifting a bandaged hand, "Can't pull back a bow to go hunting," Sophia frowned at that, "Give or take a day or two, I should be fine," Charles added with reassurance upon seeing her frown, "How's the shoulder?"

"Sore," she mused with a wince. Her shoulder felt as if someone had stuck a hot poker to it, "My side is itching something fierce though," she added, "almost like poison ivy."

Charles let out a breathy laugh, "Stitches will do that but they'll be out in no time," he motioned to the dapple with a gentle smile, "I'll let you and Othello bond some and I'll come back to check on them again later."

"Charles, I appreciate you keeping an eye on him while I've been unable to," She thanked.

Her words caused him to smile a bit wider, "As much as I appreciate your kind words, Sophia, you should thank Arthur—" He replied, "He's been keeping an eye on him for you."

Sophia flushed at his words, "I'll be sure to thank him then. I hope your hand heals quickly."

"I hope your shoulder heals quickly as well. We can't afford to have the both of us down. It's going to cause the camp to starve," He joked, "Or maybe it's just Pearson's cooking."

Sophia pursed her lips, giggling, "I'm going to say it's just a case of unfortunate events."

"Maybe so," He chuckled, "Take care, Sophia."

"Take care, Charles," she called out, turning back to Othello with a smile, "Have you been good to Mr. Morgan then?" The horse shook himself out, looking back to her with a grunt, "I'm gonna take that as a  _yes_ , 'Thello." She patted his shoulder, finding a snow covered brush lying on a post. Picking it up, she dusted off the snow and began to run it down the dapple's neck and shoulder, noticing his side had been stained red.

Her chest clenched at the sight of it, running the brush across it a few times to try and get rid of it. After a few minutes, she finally gave up on it, deciding then and there that she would have to wait until warmer weather to fully give Othello a decent bath—something that the horse thoroughly enjoyed, "I know you miss daddy, boy," she murmured to the horse, "He loved you since the first time he bought you…" Sophia walked back around his front, running the brush along his face, then paused, glancing to the horse's eyes and held her gaze, "I miss him too."

Tears welled in her eyes, "I told myself I wasn't gonna cry anymore," she whispered to the horse with a choked laugh, "I guess I'm a liar." Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Sophia continued to brush the horse down after hearing another set of footsteps approach.

"How did you manage to sneak away from Mrs. Grimshaw?" Arthur's amused voice asked from behind.

Sophia turned to the man, keeping the brush held to Othello's side, with a smile, "I didn't have to surprisingly enough; I'm just not allowed to do anything  _strenuous_."

Arthur's gaze went to the dapple, "Brushing out Othello seems pretty strenuous to me," He held out a cup, "Brought you some coffee," he offered, nodding the brush in her hand, "Hand me the brush and I'll get the rest of him so you don't bust your stitches."

"Always the gentleman, Mr. Morgan," Sophia teased, handing over the brush to his free hand and taking the cup of coffee in her other. Amidst the exchange, his calloused hand clasped over hers in a gentle fashion—the both of them tensed. Sophia could feel her face flush, but she wasn't particularly sure if it was from the cold or from embarrassment.

Arthur's eyes widened a fraction; lips parted with a sharp inhale at the initial contact. He gently squeezed with his fingertips before taking the brush, "Sorry about that," he mumbled, moving past her to brush down the dapple's legs.

Sophia held the cup in both hands, dipping her chin with a tiny grin on her face, "You're fine," she replied taking a sip of the coffee and made a tiny sound of surprise, "Sugar? How'd you manage that?"

Arthur peered over his shoulder to her, "Pearson's been holding out, so I snuck some off of him. Figured you'd like that," Sophia took note of the half-smile tugging at his mouth before his hat obscured it when he turned his body to run the brush along Othello's belly. The stallion grunted with each stroke of the brush, eventually leaning forward into a stretch when Arthur reached the horse's inner thigh. He chuckled, patting the stallion's side, "You like that, boy?"

"I also wanted to thank you," Sophia began.

"Fo'what?" He asked, briefly looking up at her.

"For taking care of Othello while I was…you know," she spoke lightly.

Arthur shook his head, "I didn't do nothing you wouldn't have done for me, besides," he grunted, straightening himself up, "Everyone else helped as well."

"Charles says otherwise," Sophia pointed out from her recent conversation.

Arthur fell silent, holding his mouth a certain way when he knew he was caught in a lie, "Maybe that's what you  _thought_  you heard." He moved around to Othello's other side before Sophia could catch the further reddening of his face.

"What I  _heard_  was crystal clear," Sophia mused as she took another sip upon hearing Arthur grunt in reply as he began to brush down Othello's other side, "So,  _thank you_." The dapple stallion had other plans for Arthur, careening his neck over the bent over man as he snatched Arthur's hat from off his head with a snort. Sophia nearly choked on her sip of coffee, covering her mouth to swallow, "Oh!"

"Hey!" Arthur straightened as soon as it happened, reaching for his hat, "Now, come on, boy." The horse bobbed his head with the hat in his mouth, pawing at the ground. Arthur reached for it once more, only for the dapple to raise his head as high as he could with a grunt. A few moments later, he dropped it on the other side where Sophia stood, nickering while Arthur shook his head, chuckling at the horse and scratched the back of his neck.

Sophia, having a hand held over her mouth to stifle her laughter, picked the hat up from the ground and dusted the snow off, "Othello, be good."

"Ah, don't jump onto him, Soph," Arthur ran a hand up the dapple's muzzle, watching as the horse's ears swiveled to the sounds of their voices, "He's just in a good mood. Aren't you, boy?" Othello shook himself out, allowing Arthur to finish brushing him out. Moving back around Othello, Arthur returned to where Sophia had stood, grinning at him with his hat in her hand and her cup of coffee in the other.

A part of him swore that smile of hers could light a dark room if it wanted to, and a part of him also knew she reserved that kind of smile for him. At least, he liked to think of it like that. He knew he had never seen her smile like that for anyone else, except maybe for Forrest, and that made him feel like he didn't need another thing in the world. Arthur cleared his throat, as well as the fog in his head, "That should do him for now."

Sophia handed him back his hat, "Thank you… _again_."

"Don't gotta thank me, Soph," he mumbled, taking his hat from her to put it back on. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, pulling out two. He offered one to Sophia, who graciously took it. Lighting a match, he lit hers first before his—watching as she took a drag off the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. Doing the same, he tossed the spent match, stepping on it with the toe of his boot, "How's the shoulder?"

Sophia lifted her good shoulder, "About as fun as a toothache," she lamented with a slow, stiff roll of her other, "These stitches, on the other hand, feels like that time we got into poison sumac."

Arthur shook his head with a grimace before laughing, "I don't think we had a place on our whole body that  _didn't_  itch."

"Or blistered," Sophia grimaced, remembering how miserable they were. All because of some high-society stagecoach was supposed to come through with expensive goods, "I've  _still_  got scars on my legs from that."

"That was the last time you wore a dress," Arthur chuckled out, bringing his cigarette to his lips, "and then you started stealing my shirts."

Smoke billowed from Sophia's lips, grinning slyly, "Still do."

"I am very much aware of your sly antics, Ms. Mason," He replied with a small grin, peering at the woman from under the brim of his hat, "I wanted to ask you something and…forgive me if I'm bein' crass."

Sophia arched a brow, humming.

"What happened in Blackwater?" he asked, watching as her face grew pale and hard.

"Everything turned to shit is what happened," she replied in a quiet tone, inhaling on her cigarette then gazed towards the mountains, "It was fine, and then…it was like hell opened up. Purely biblical on how catastrophic it was." Sophia shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment, replaying the events, "Desdemona got shot and I…lost her getting out of Blackwater…"

Arthur frowned deeply. She loved that horse much like he loved his mare Boadicea.

"I hung back with daddy, got shot twice trying to cover Dutch and the rest of them so that they could leave," She murmured, holding herself as she continued, "I didn't know daddy got shot until it was too late…stubborn son of a bitch; lost him when the storm first hit…"

Arthur shook his head. He was partially angry at himself for not being there and partially aghast at what he was hearing, "Sophia…"

Sophia shook her head slowly, allowing her gaze to drop to her boots, "Dutch lost his mind on that ferry, Arthur. It-it wasn't  _Dutch_. He shot a woman…in a bad way."

"Javier said about the same thing back when we were finding John," Arthur spoke, earning a small nod from his friend.

Sophia blew out a sigh, "All that matters now, is that we're all here, and we're safe...I just wonder how much longer Dutch wants to wait here…" Bringing her cigarette to her lips, she inhaled, the end of her cigarette flaring to a fiery red.

"Heard from one of O'Driscoll's boys that there was a train coming through soon," Arthur replied on his exhale, earning an interested glance from Sophia as she exhaled. He shook his head, "I know what you're thinkin', Soph, and there's no way you're going when it goes down." Sophia pursed her lips with a defiant look in her eye, "Don't you give me that look either."

"You asking or you telling?" She asked with an arched brow, her cigarette hanging out of her lip for a moment before she held it between her index finger and thumb. Smoke billowed out of her nose like the sleeping dragon in the tale of King Arthur.

Arthur raised his brows at the question; his lips had parted as if to say something in response, however he found no words to counteract hers. He shifted his weight in his feet, swallowing at the sudden dryness in his mouth, "I'm…I'm asking you not to," He spoke slowly, reaching to run the pad of his thumb down her chin, thinking hard about his next few words. His gaze met hers and held it, licking his dry lips, "Just don't want you to get hurt more than what you already are, sweetheart."

Sophia held her mouth in a thin line, knowing that it would be a few more weeks of resting until her shoulder would be fully healed. In turn, Sophia placed a hand on his stubbly cheek, running her thumb across his skin, "If I didn't care about what you had to say, I'd say you were a fool, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur let out a breathy laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling, "What you talkin' about? I already am a fool, Soph."

"I don't see it," she replied with a soft chuckle, glancing over his softened expression. Running the pad of her thumb across his cheek once more, she rose on her toes to kiss him gently on the cheek, "Thank you, Arthur," she murmured, placing her cheek to his for a moment.

His body tensed against hers, "What for?" He watched for a moment as she gazed back at him, her eyes flitting across his face, smiling. He noticed her chin tremble slightly, earning a worried look.

"You just don't realize how much I appreciate you…" Her voice wavered, despite still smiling, "Daddy loved you, Arthur, and I lo—," she let out a soft laugh to stave off that god awful knot in her throat, "I know that he's resting with momma knowing that I'm not really alone as long as you're here…I just…I thought I'd tell you that."

Arthur enveloped Sophia in his arms, holding the back of her head with a hand, and wrapped an arm around her waist. She laid her head against his chest in their embrace while he rested his cheek against her head, closing his eyes as he battled his own emotions, "Forrest was a good man," he finally spoke, " _Is_  a good man," he then added. Gazing down to Sophia, Arthur felt his stomach twist and knot, "What I don't understand is why you and him think so highly of me...There's nothin' about me that's good."

Sophia furrowed her brows at him, "You're every bit a good man, Arthur," she replied, "I've seen what kind of things you've done," he averted his gaze to the space between them, "but I've done those same things, too. That don't make me no better of a person either, but damn it, Arthur, at least give yourself some credit."

Her words were met with silence, save for the sounds of the horses and Pearson tinkering around in the covered shed across from them. She threw her cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the toe of her boot, frowning deeply at Arthur, "You've got more good in you than bad…and if that wasn't the case, then…then you wouldn't be going out of your way to take care of my horse while I'm down, or  _finding_  that new book back in town for me when I couldn't, or bringing me a bouquet of wildflowers because you thought they looked nice beside my cot."

Arthur  _did_  do those things for her when it was clearly evident that he didn't have to. Once again, he hated to admit to himself that he loved her.

"  _Arthur_ ," her voice went low as tears welled in her eyes, earning a wince from him. Her mouth formed a thin line as she placed her hand on his cheek once again, then shook her head slowly at his shame-faced expression when he finally met her gaze once more, "You are a good man, Arthur…I…I can't stand to see how badly you view yourself."

Arthur shook his head, taking a step back from her, "Then  _stop_."

Sophia blinked at him, confused, "Stop what, Arthur?"

" _This_ ," he gestured to her after placing her hands to her sides, "Stop tryin' to act like you give a damn when nobody else does."

"I  _do_ ," Sophia's words were fragile like the icicles on the roofs of the buildings, "I always have."

Arthur shook his head, scowling at her, "I don't need anyone to give a damn about me, Sophia. I didn't need anyone to then, and I don't need them to now."

Sophia battled the wounded expression on her face, glancing to the ground before she nodded, taking a sharp intake of air, meeting his scowl. Her jaw clenched, Sophia dumped the rest of the coffee at her feet then walked by him, shoving the cup into his gut where he caught it, "Fuck you, Morgan…" Her voice was raw with emotion, swiping at her face as her bad shoulder collided with his.

Arthur watched her walk quickly into the building she had been in with her shoulder clutched, the door slamming shut behind her. He let out a heavy sigh, feeling his chest clench with disgust as he swiped away a few tears that escaped. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd hurt her, and judging by the look in her eyes, he had.

He had to.

It was the only way that he knew to keep her from getting hurt—and himself—cause God only knew anyone he loved wound up leaving him one way or another. Arthur couldn't bear to lose Sophia like that. Especially not like Eliza and Isaac anyhow, and in this lifestyle, it was an everyday fear of his. It was precisely why he hadn't acted on his feelings sooner. What made matters worse for him, was the letter that remained tucked away in his journal that was tucked away in his coat pocket.

"Forrest, I can't do that to her," he muttered, pulling the brim of his hat down after casting a glance to the overcast sky, "I just hope you understand."

* * *

Walking to the covered shed, Pearson rose from his seat with a cough, "We're gonna starve to death up here, Mr. Morgan," he rubbed his hands after holding them above the red embers for warmth.

"We're okay," he replied in a curt tone, moving to the other side of the shed to warm his hands as Pearson moved to the table to throw more items into the cast iron kettle.

"We have a few cans of food and a rabbit, for what? Ten, twelve people?" Pearson questioned, turning back to him with heavy sigh, "When I was in the Navy…"

Arthur stepped away from the coals, shaking his head at the older man, "I-I do not wish to hear about you go up to in the Navy, Mr. Pearson," he peered into the kettle to see what Pearson had in it. Whatever it was didn't look too appetizing.

"We were stranded at sea for  _fifty_  days," Mr. Pearson spoke, dumping quarters of a rabbit into the kettle.

"And you unfortunately survived…" Arthur interrupted with splayed hands.

Mr. Pearson sighed, "When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn't able to get supplies in," He picked up the cast iron kettle with a grunt, taking it over to the hot coals, hanging it.

Arthur followed behind, splaying his hands as he spoke, "Well, when government agents are hunting you down  _sometimes_ shopping trips need to be cut short," he let them fall at his sides, "We'll survive. We always have…" Pearson moved back to the table, reaching for the cooking ladle, "but if needs be, we can eat  _you_ …you're the fattest."

"I sent Lenny and Bill hunting and they found  _nothing_ ," Mr. Pearson told him in a grave tone.

Arthur returned his hands to the embers as Charles walked under the shed, joining them, "Well, Lenny's more into book learning than hunting; Bill's a fool," he commented, "Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read," he gestured to the mountains as he continued to speak, "ain't no wonder they found—"

"Enough of this," Charles interrupted, giving both men a look, "We'll go find something," he gestured to the horses, "Come on, Arthur." Charles moved to leave until Pearson held up a hand.

"Wait a second, hold on," he said quickly, moving back over to the table once again to pick something off the table, "Here," he tossed it to Arthur, "you're gonna need something to eat out there."

Catching it, he looked it over, soon wrinkling his nose at it, "Assorted salted offal," he looked up from the label, glancing to Charles then to Pearson, "Starving would be preferable."

"Come on, let's go," Charles insisted, holding his hand.

Arthur shook his head, "You can't go hunting, look at your hand."

"I can't stay here and listen to you two," Charles countered, "Look, I would've gotten Sophia to join me, but, neither of us are able to pull back a bow," he gauged the look that dashed across Arthur's face at the mention of her, "If there's game in those hills, I'll find it and you'll kill it."

Arthur shifted himself to face Charles, "As I've advised Sophia—you need to rest, Charles."

"You think this is rest?" Charles questioned with a scoff. Arthur slowly shook his head, "Come along." Both men walked out to the horses, where Charles handed Arthur his bow, "Here, you take this."

Arthur looked to Charles, then to the bow with uncertainty.

"I can't use it and you'll have to," he continued.

"Oh, you're joking," Arthur held the weapon in his hands, looking it over as it he walked over to the newly acquired paint he got back from over at Sadie Adler's old homestead a few days ago.

Charles mounted the appaloosa, "Use a gun and we'll scare off every animal for miles around," he looked over to Arthur as he mounted his horse, "You're never too old to learn, I imagine."

Arthur glanced to the bow once more before strapping it across his shoulder, throwing a glance to the building where Sophia had entered a while ago—giving it a double-take at the thought of seeing her standing near a window, looking out.

"Alright, let's head out," Charles called out, already a few feet ahead of him on Taima.

Arthur dug his heels into the paint, following behind Charles at an easy pace. Having ridden out of camp and through the small clearing before it, they crossed a stream—water sloshing and splashing from the horses, "How are you holding up, Charles?"

"I'm okay, apart from this hand," he replied, "Stupid mistake."

"Still bad?" Arthur asked, glancing over to the man.

Nodding, Charles flexed his injured hand slowly, "It will be fine in a day or two. I just can't pull a bow right now."

Arthur frowned with uncertainty at the task that lay before him, "I sure hope I can. I never really got the hang of it—Sophia though, she's a hell of shot."

"You'll be fine," Charles reassured casting a glance to Arthur from Taima, "Sophia is a big help to the group."

"That she is," Arthur murmured, feeling the same painful clench in his chest from earlier, "So," he blew out a breath, shoving the thoughts back, "you reckon we're gonna find something to kill that ain't an O'Driscoll?"

Charles let out a dry laugh from up ahead as their horses trotted easily along the river, "There's meat up here for sure. Pearson doesn't know what he's talking about." He glanced to the sky, observing it for a moment, "Now that the weather's eased off a bit, they'll be needing to feed."

They came to another river crossing, one that would've led them back to what used to be the Adler homestead. Charles gestured to the left, "We'll head up this way. Find some higher ground."

A shiver ran throughout Arthur's body, the cold easily creeping in the longer he remained out, "Been a wild few days alright…that ride north from Blackwater, getting stuck in this storm, bringing John back in…"

"You've had a lot put on you," Charles responded with a somber tone, "I wish I could have done more."

"I didn't mean it like  _that_ , just…a lot to think back on," Arthur restated.

And it was a lot to think back on. There had been more added to the list as sure as the sun above hung in the sky that it made his head spin.

"I still don't really know what happened on that boat," Charles admitted.

"Me neither," came his reply, "Well, Javier and Sophia told me a bit, but…it sure weren't good."

* * *

 ******* Sometime later, the sun had peeked through the wall of clouds once more causing white blankets of snow to glitter like precious stones, just as a light showering of snow from above did the same. Seeing the sun was just a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it meant that warmer days were beginning to come. Around them, patches of grass had pushed through their icy prison waiting for the sun's rays to melt the ice and snow.

"There's some patches of grass here," Charles pointed out with a hint of relief in his voice, "This is good." He veered a hard right, heading down a slope, "Come on, let's try this way. Keep your eyes peeled for movement." Taima snorted, shaking her head as she held a decent pace, "The wind's died down too."

Arthur furrowed his brows in confusion, "And that's good?"

"No wind at all is bad," Charles explained, "but if it's too strong, they won't move. Now,  _shh._  Stay quiet." His eyes scanned ahead, searching for signs of life in the distance.

Arthur did the same, but he wasn't nearly the hunter Charles is.

"Hey," Charles had noticed something, slowing Taima down to a mere walk, "stop here a second. I see something." He dismounted, moving forward in the snow with upmost care of his foot placement. Squatting down, he reached out, touching the ground, "There's deer been here…and recently."

Having dismounted and clutching the bow, Arthur joined him, crouching and observing for whatever Charles had laid eyes on, "How can you tell?"

Charles huffed at his question, "How can you  _not?_ " He straightened up, meeting Arthur's inquisitive gaze, "We'll walk it from here."

Arthur gave the man a nod, keeping the bow in his hand as a precautionary step.

"Keep down," Charles instructed him with an even tone of voice, "Move quietly and slowly. Can you see the tracks?"

Arthur turned his eyes to the ground, uncertain of what he even needed to look for. Sure, there were tracks in the snow, but they were theirs and their horses. He tilted his head, "I think so…maybe not."

"Focus," Charles insisted, gesturing to a faint line in the snow, "That's a trail made by the deer. If we can follow that a ways, I'm sure we'll end up catching up to them."

"Sure thing," Arthur commented, allowing his eyes to follow the trail through a small thicket.

"It's easier in the snow, but once you get your eye in, you'll be able to track nearly as well in grass and woods."

Moving forward in silence, Arthur hunkered close to the ground, following the trail. Every now and then, he'd stop to listen for signs of movement and look ahead for any signs of life. To him, as he kept following, he felt as if this whole tracking business was getting slightly easier, but like Charles said, tracking was much easier in the snow. Having topped out on a small crest, he had come to a group of evergreens.

"Wait, look," Charles whispered, dragging Arthur's attention from the ground. He glanced to the man, seeing that he was gesturing to something up ahead. Following his arm, his breath hitched in his throat, catching sight of what looked like a fairly young deer—a yearling doe. A more mature doe stepped out from behind thick brush, touching its nose to the smaller doe. It was a beautiful sight, "There they are. Are you ready with that bow?"

Arthur could've cussed at himself for not being ready. Quiet, he knocked the arrow that Charles had supplied him, drawing the string back. Having watched Sophia shoot, he had picked up on small things she did that helped her easily hit her mark. He placed the knuckle of his thumb at the corner of his mouth, aiming the bow at the mass of the mature doe.

"Try to hit them in the head or neck—quick and clean," Charles explained.

Slowly, he moved his arrow to the thickest point of the doe's neck, letting out a slow breath while he let go of the string. The arrow shot forward, seconds later, hitting something with a muffled  _thwack_! The doe jumped, sprinting into the cover of the trees.

The sound of twigs and branches breaking shortly after was met with a deafening silence.

"Shit," Arthur muttered, letting the bow fall to his side, "I didn't hit it."

Charles held his gaze on where the doe had stood, slowly shaking his head, "I'm not so sure, Arthur. I want to go take a better look—come on." He urged, moving amongst the trees, quiet. Arthur followed behind; sure that he didn't hit anything.

He was wrong. Approaching the spot, blood was splattered along the ground, steaming from the heat.

"You hit it, Arthur," Charles smiled, following the blood trail into the trees where his smile widened, "Look."

The doe didn't make it far into the tree line, lying in the snow, still.

Charles clapped a hand on his shoulder, "Good job, Arthur. I'll go get the horses. See if you can get another one."

Arthur gazed at Charles, bewildered, "You sure about that?"

"Of course I am," Charles replied in a confident tone, "You had good shot placement on this doe. I'm  _positive_  you'll be able to get another." *******

* * *

Sophia stood at the window, staring out absentmindedly with a cigarette in her hand. Having an arm wrapped around her middle, she rested her elbow on her wrist placing the butt of the cigarette to her lips as she inhaled, listening to the hushed conversations in the room. Hosea and Herr Strauss had been talking more about the potential move to the East. Abigail had Jack by her side, reading him chapters from  _The Jungle Book_. John was lying on the cot asleep. Tilly, Karen, and Mary Beth were conversing amongst themselves about how hungry they were and if the cold was ever going to end.

She often wondered it herself. This cold was unbearable at times, often causing her shoulder to throb as the temperatures plummeted at night. She often huddled amongst the group of ladies for warmth by the fire if she got too cold. To be able to enjoy the warmth of mid-spring and early summer was all but a few weeks away. Her mind had darted to a hundred different things she had already planned on doing when they left this mountain.

Bathing Othello was top of her list. The way his coat looked after a good scrubbing was like looking at a statue until Othello deemed a patch of sand the best place to roll around in. Sophia smirked, knowing how goofy that horse was.

A warm bath with a bottle of whiskey in her hand was second on her list. If one would play an overture from Beethoven—she would have a fine evening to herself in the closest hotel. Perhaps even find a new book to read.

The spring thaw couldn't get here quick enough.

"Seein' anything interesting out there, Mason?" John's gravelly voice pulled her away from her thoughts.

Sophia turned her gaze to the bandaged man lying in a cot near her, "If you consider several feet of snow, interesting…then, yes. Quite." John grimaced, gesturing her over to assist him. She arched a brow, "You shouldn't be trying to get up."

He glowered at her for a moment, scoffing as she pulled him to sit up, "Says the stubborn mule with a lame shoulder."

Sophia pursed her lips, punching him in the shoulder with her good arm, "You're one to talk, dog food," John chuckled, rubbing his shoulder with a bandaged hand as she took a seat beside him. Pulling out her pack of cigarettes, she held it out to John after taking another one out.

He glanced at her, taking the pack from her hand and placed a cigarette between his lips, watching as she lit the end of her new cigarette with her old one, handing it to him. He did the same, tossing it to the ground and put it out with the heel of his boot, "Trouble in paradise?"

"What makes you say that?" Sophia questioned, smoke billowing from her mouth and nose.

John slouched against the wall, straightening his legs with a grimace, "The only time you smoke like a train is when you're bored or pissed, and seein' how you came in like a tornado earlier—I'm going to say you're both."

Sophia's lips curved into a half-smile, looking down at her hands. They were grimy looking; bruised, battered, scraped up, and scarred. Her nails were gnawed into the quick in some places, while her palms were cracked and calloused, "To think the wolves got what's left of your brain is an understatement, Marston," her voice grew softer, "To be frank, I'm not pissed…I'm…" she trailed off, thinking of a proper word for how she felt.

"You're hurt," John finished her sentence, blowing out a stream of smoke. He watched it dissipate for a moment, turning his head to look at her fully, "Which leads me to one of two things…Forrest," he gauged her expression at the mention of her father's name, "Or your cowpoke in shining armor."

Sophia's eyes widened, choking on smoke, "Damn you, John," she coughed, casting the man a glare as he sat beside her with a smug expression, "I ain't hurt over neither…" She lied, "it's just…"

"A lot to take in. I get it," John shrugged minutely, bringing the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling as his gaze went to Abigail and Jack, "She expects a lot out of me…"

Sophia nodded, "I know."

John shook his head with furrowed brows, "What about you?"

Her mouth formed at line, tilting her head, "What about me?"

He shrugged, "I don't know…" he turned his head to her once again, "What should I do?"

"You want the truth or the lie, Marston?" She questioned.

"The truth, I guess," John replied, flicking his hands minutely as he spoke.

Sophia shifted in her seat, looking to Abigail and Jack with a heavy sigh, "Stop acting like Jack is a disease, and start being a father," She caught the withering glare from John; "You wanted the truth, Marston, now you're gonna listen," Sophia brought the cigarette to her lips, "You're missin' out on things you shouldn't be missin' out on, John…all because of what? Pride? Doubt? Fear?" John bowed his head, "Abigail has a past—we all know it—but she chose  _you_ , John. You're taking the girl for granted and at the end of the day, you're hurting Jack."

"Don't you think I know that already?" he replied, heated.

Sophia shrugged, "You asked for my opinion, I gave you it. What you make of it, is purely your choice."

John let out a heavy sigh, flipping the ashes off his cigarette, "You know he'll come around."

Sophia looked over to John with furrowed brows, "What?"

"Arthur," John stated, meeting her confused expression, "He'll come around. He's stubborn, but the big guy has a soft spot for you."

Sophia shook her head at that, "As much as I appreciate the words of encouragement, John…ain't no one interested in a worn out mule like me," her mouth tipped into a half-smile, "Someone'll have to put me down in no time once I'm no use to anyone."

John began to chuckle, "Give it time. You'll see."

"What? Putting me down?" She questioned.

"N-no.  _Arthur_ ," John stuttered, "and  _I'm_  supposed to be the dumbass," he muttered, smirking after Sophia scoffed, nudging him with her bad arm and winced, "Dumbass."

* * *

 ******* Arthur walked upon a smaller doe, shouldering the bow Charles had loaned him, "You sure your hand's okay?" He called out, kneeling beside the animal.

"It'll be fine once I get it on my shoulder," Charles called out from across the creek, having gutted the larger doe in order to lighten the carcass for the trip back to camp, "Be sure to leave the heart and liver, Arthur, it's the most nutritious meat in the deer."

"Alright then," he responded, unsheathing his knife from his waist after rolling the smaller doe onto it's back. Slicing from the bottom of its ribcage, down; its innards spilled out easily from the force of gravity in a wet heap. Pulling down on the stomach, Arthur took his knife, cutting it away and part of the diaphragm; leaving the liver, heart, and lungs intact.

Grabbing the back legs, Arthur drug the carcass downhill until he made it to the creek, kneeling on its banks to rid his blade and hands of blood. The burst of cold made his hands ache, making quick work of the residue. Sheathing the knife, he held his hands under his arms for a moment to keep them from freezing further.

"You about ready?" Charles approached him, leading Taima with the larger doe secured. *******

"Ready to head back when you are," He replied, pulling his gloves back on, and pulled the carcass onto his shoulder. The paint stood patiently on the other side, grunting, after he placed the carcass on its hindquarters; tying it securely.

"Come on then, let's head back," Charles replied.

Mounting up, Arthur and Charles rode back up the trail with ease. The sun had all but appeared through the clouds, the temperature overall seemed like it had warmed considerably within the last little bit. Arthur felt a great deal of accomplishment.

"Nice work, Arthur," Charles spoke from Taima, "Should be enough meat here to keep us all fed for a few days."

"You found 'em," Arthur responded, meeting the man's smirk.

"I knew you'd be okay with that bow," He affirmed, keeping pace with Arthur's paint.

Arthur chuckled, "It's easier when they ain't shooting back."

Charles laughed good-naturedly, "We've seen enough of that."

"Considering how things were looking a couple of days back, maybe our luck is finally on the turn."

Charles hummed, "Seems to me like we need to be putting our effort into getting off this mountain now," he then suggested.

It wasn't like the man was wrong either. Deep down, Arthur knew the thaw was beginning. He knew that everyone in camp was getting anxious to move—himself included, "Soon," Arthur replied as they crossed over from the left side of the creek to the right, "People are still weak and you've seen how snowed in some of the wagons are…we ain't going nowhere until we get some more thaw."

Charles hummed again, "You're probably right," he surmised, "And, even if we do get off here, what then?" He questioned, "We'll still have a big price on our heads."

Once more, the man wasn't wrong, "This is a big country," Arthur spoke easily, "We'll find somewhere to lie low; Dutch and Hosea will have a plan." His words seemed more of a reassurance to himself than toward Charles. The paint whinnied, pausing a beat to rear minutely, "Woah," he patted the horse in reassurance, catching up to Charles, "You noticed how Pearson's had a bottle in his hand ever since we left Blackwater? We give the camp cook five minutes to grab the essentials and go, and he doesn't even bring a crumb of food."

"Good that we caught more than one," Charles replied, "A lot of mouths to feed."

"And that girl from the ranch now too, but…not sure she'll be eating much," He commented, knowing that she's stricken with grief over the murder of her husband.

"She has a wild look in her eye," Charles spoke with caution.

"You would too," Arthur replied, "She lost her husband, her home…everything she had."

"So what do we do with her?" Charles questioned, casting a wary glance to Arthur.

They passed through a group of trees, into a clearing.

"Once we get out of here, and back on our feet, we'll see," He responded in a nonchalant tone, "She might have family somewhere."

"So, it was the O'Driscoll's you ran into there?" Charles asked, perturbed.

"Yeah," Arthur responded with a chuckle, "last thing we was expecting."

"What is it with the O'Driscolls?" He asked, genuinely curious.

Arthur blinked, almost in disbelief, "You ain't dealt with them?" He tilted his head as they came over a crest, "I suppose we ain't ran into them much in the last six months, but I guess it's because they've been over this way."

"Yeah," Charles agreed, "I've heard a lot of talk about them."

"Well…" Arthur began, "We've been scrapping scores with them for years," he explained, "A big gang—nasty sons of bitches. Their leader, Colm, and Dutch go way back, and not in a good way," Arthur shook his head at the long history between the gangs, "A proper blood feud."

"So I've heard," Charles responded in a grave tone. Rounding the bend, their horses slowed to a halt, pawing at the ground anxiously and chomped that their bits. Charles and Arthur looked ahead to see why—a grizzly had come out of hibernation to forage the river bank, "Let's see if we can find another way around."

Arthur considered the bear for a moment, "He's got a lot of meat on him."

"We've got enough here," Charles replied, "No need to push our luck."

"Can't say I disagree with ya, Charles," Arthur's gaze moved across the layout of the terrain, keeping a watchful eye on the bear as it sifted through the snow in search of morsels. A burst of adrenaline caused him to shift in his saddle from hearing the bear grumble and groan to itself.

"He must be real hungry," Charles murmured, watching the animal closely as well, "Stay well back," He warned, "Spring storms like this are the worst for animals that sleep all winter," They hung back for a few moments, watching the hunger-fueled bruin mosey back up the slope, to which they hung a sharp right, "Cut up here, off the trail."

Despite being spooked, the paint ascended choppily behind Taima, grunting and shaking its head. Arthur couldn't much blame the horse for being that way. He guessed if he were in its place, he'd be the same way. Hell, he felt pretty antsy from the encounter himself, and he had weapons at his disposal.

Having bypassed the bear completely, Arthur rode easily beside Charles, "We ain't never talked much, you and me. How long have you been with us now? Five, six months?"

"Something like that," Charles replied, nonchalant.

Arthur chuckled, "Bet you didn't expect this."

"What?"

Arthur shrugged, "Any of this," he replied vaguely, "The Blackwater mess, being up here…"

"Ah," Charles nodded, understanding, "Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong. Nature of life."

Arthur shrugged inwardly, "Just thought you might have moved on by now."

Charles looked over to Arthur, brow arched, "You want me to move on?"

He shook his head, "No, no. Not at all, just…" He fumbled over his words, "I know you can run it alone, no problem."

"I did that for a long time," Charles spoke, "I'm done with it, always wondering if someone's going to kill you in your sleep."

Arthur grinned at his words, "I still wonder that most nights."

Charles chuckled in return, "I reckon you're okay…this suits me," They crossed the river and into a clearing, coming over another hill, "Sure, I could fall in with another gang, but Dutch…you know…Dutch is different."

"Oh yes," Arthur agreed wholeheartedly, "Dutch is certainly different."

"He treats me fair," Charles commented, "Most of you do," he added, "And for a fellow with a black father and an Indian mother, that ain't normally the case."

"Well, we need you now," Arthur told him honestly, "more than ever."

Charles nodded, "Good…and how long have you been with these boys? Why ain't you run off?"

Arthur felt taken aback at Charles' question, "Me?" He asked awkwardly, thinking about his answer, "Twenty years, something like that…Since I was a boy."

"Twenty years?" Charles' tone was thick was shock.

Arthur smiled to himself, prideful of his time with Dutch and the others, "Yeah…he taught me to read. John too. Taught me a few other things, him and Hosea. Forrest and Lily helped some too."

"I'm sure," Charles' reply was humble, "And what about Sophia and Forrest?"

Arthur knit his brows, peering at the man under the brim of his hat with skepticism, "What about them?"

"What's their story?" He asked.

Arthur tilted his head, scrubbing at his chin with the back of his thumb as he pushed a breath through his nose, "They've been around longer than I have," He caught Charles' surprised expression, chuckling, "Oh yeah. Forrest and his family have been around since the beginning."

"That's…impressive," Charles commented, "And Forrest was married, correct?"

Arthur's lips pulled into a solemn frown, "Lily Mason was her name," He felt a pang of grief in his chest, "Forrest loved her as sure as the sky is blue, and Lily loved them both—the whole group in fact. She made sure that everyone was fed and warm. I only got to know her for a short time, but I consider her close to something of a mother."

"She sounded like a good person," Charles replied, earning a soft chuckle from Arthur.

"When she died, I thought for sure Forrest was going to drink himself to death," Arthur hesitated, "It was a bad time for all of us. She and Mrs. Grimshaw were close. It wasn't long after, Forrest gained his bearings and started getting Sophia into everything with the group."

"So, is it true about her?" He asked.

Arthur threw Charles a wary glance, "Is what true about her?" His voice hardened.

"Heard from some of the guys that she got into a fight with a bobcat and killed it with her bare hands," Charles replied with a smirk, earning a hearty laugh from Arthur.

"That horseshit's been around since Marston came into the picture," Arthur laughed, "They went out hunting one day and came back with a bobcat and a turkey—Sophia's obviously scratched up. Marston swears to this day that Sophia killed it with her bare hands. Since then, he's called her Wildcat, and it's just stuck."

By then, Charles began to laugh, "It sounds like you have some interesting stories about her."

"Oh, this don't begin to cover half of it," Arthur replied, smiling more to himself, "Sophia is in more ways than one, her mother's child, and then in more ways than one, you can tell she's Forrest's kid. Tougher'n hell and definitely someone I'd trust my life with. You couldn't ask for a better person," In fact, anything he was saying didn't begin to cover the half of what he thought about Sophia or her father. There wasn't enough good things that  _could_  be said, "Dutch saved me…he save most of us," Arthur concluded as they began to cross another part of the creek, "That's why we need to stick by him through this. He always sees us right."

"How's that new horse?" Charles asked, gesturing to the paint.

Arthur patted the side of the paint's neck, "He's alright," he commented, "He'll do for now. I appreciate you letting me take Taima the other night."

"She's a strong one," Charles replied with a smile of adoration towards the mare, "It's been as hard on the horses as on the rest of us. I don't know what Dutch would do if something happened to the Count."

"Same with Bill and Brown Jack," Arthur chuckled out catching the faint outline of the camp up ahead, "He's a drunk, miserable bastard, but…he loves that horse."

"I hope they all make it," Charles spoke with sincerity in his voice.

"I tried to ride the Count once," Arthur reminisced with a hearty chuckle, "bucked me faster than a bull. Won't take nobody but him."

Charles chuckled, "I'm going to hitch Taima over here."

"Brought some food back boys," Arthur announced, hitching the paint closer to Pearson's shed, "Come on, let's get these over to Pearson," He slid the deer carcass over onto his shoulder, "Oh, and thank you for showing me how to use a bow properly."

"I only showed you a little," Charles replied, moving the carcass onto his shoulder with a grunt, "Takes a lifetime of practice to master." Both men packed the deer over to Pearson, who stood by idly, impressed at their haul.

"Well, well, well," Pearson greeted them, "Just drop it down here," he gestured to the ground in front of him.

Arthur let the carcass fall to the ground, straightening up to see Uncle sitting near the coals warming up, "What a surprise," He spoke working out the stiffness in his shoulder, "to find the camp rat loitering around in the kitchen."

Uncle leaned forward, splaying his hands out to the coals for warmth, "Is that anyway to greet an old friend? I feel like we ain't spoken in a few days."

Arthur fixed a narrowed gaze to the older man, "I do my upmost to avoid you."

Uncle chuckled, gesturing a hand to Arthur as he spoke to Charles, "He loves me really…It's his sad way of showing affection."

"No, it isn't," Arthur rolled his eyes, beginning to feel warmth in his hands return.

Uncle grinned, a mischevious glint holding its place in his eyes, "Too bad I'm not Miss.  _Sophia_ , or I'd be getting the goo-goo eyes and a smootchy-smooch on the cheek."

Arthur made a sound of agitation, shaking his head, "You've drunk so much you've been confusing your hallucinations and dreams with reality, old man."

Uncle and Pearson began to laugh heartily, exchanging knowing glances to each other and to Charles, "If I was in my prime, I'd marry that girl in a heartbeat," Uncle teased, eating this moment up, "A woman that hunts, fishes,  _and_  can drink? A woman after my own heart." He let out a teasing dreamy sigh earning a glare from Arthur.

"I've heard enough out of you," Arthur muttered, "Now shoot, get lost!"

Uncle rose to his feet, chuckling, "Well, see you gents later. I'm off to see Miss. Sophia; at least she's nice to me."

Arthur scoffed, shifting his shoulders in a sorry attempt to rid himself of Uncle's brought on irritation, "Don't let her kindness fool you, she just feels sorry for you." Uncle chuckled heartily once more before leaving the shelter of the shed. Charles and Pearson remained near the fire momentarily.

"See you got on just fine," Pearson gestured to the pair of doe.

"Charles is a wonder," Arthur complemented.

Mr. Pearson held out a bottle of liquor, "Have a drink boys…you earned it."

Arthur took it from him, pressing the bottle to his lips and washed down the dryness in his mouth. Like a hot slap, he winced, feeling the liquid slide down leaving a burning wake.

"Jesus, what is that?" He questioned, handing it to Charles, who took a swallow of liquor.

Pearson grinned, "Navy rum, sir. It's the only thing…the only thing," he chuckled, taking it from Charles, "Keeps you sane, it does," He took a seat, taking a healthy swallow of it himself.

"Yes, seems to have done a treat on you," Arthur quipped, watching the man drink it like water, "You go rest that hand, Charles,"

"I'll be fine in a few days," Charles replied.

Pearson gestured to the deer on the ground, "You mind helping me with the skinning, Mr. Morgan?" Arthur glanced to the carcasses, "It's easier if we do it together."

"Do I get to skin you?" Arthur questioned with an arched brow.

Pearson chuckled until he coughed, turning his head; "You're always one with the jokes aren't you?" He rose to his feet, "Come on."

"This really isn't the job for a man with a burnt hand. I'll see you both later," Charles spoke before heading out.

Pearson walked over to the carcass on the table, gesturing to the one on the ground, "You skin the one y-you dumped on the floor there—it shouldn't take us long. It'll be quick work." Arthur moved from his place by the coals over to the deer carcass where he made quick work of the hide, "Not too bad, Mr. Morgan," Pearson commented, watching as Arthur handed him the hide, "Yeah, they always said you were a butcher," The man held out the hide, inspecting it with a hum, "You know you can trade these or sell these in pretty much any town…," Pearson rambled on, wrapping the hide in on itself, "if you're looking to make a legitimate bit of money of course." He added, setting it on the table.

"Right now, I'm just looking to get off this mountain alive," Arthur replied, stepping over the newly skinned carcass to the table.

"Yeah, well, if you happen to catch anything else…" Pearson grunted, placing the first carcass onto a hanger. Arthur patted him on the shoulder, stepping away, "you bring it to me."

"Sure," Arthur picked up the carcass, hanging it up for Pearson.

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," Pearson said, stepping back admiring the new supply of meat, "Heck, Arthur Morgan's first decent bit of hunting, after all these years."

"Yeah, well, we're on the run now…" He commented, keeping a hand on the carcass before he stepped back, glancing out to the snowy landscape, "everyone's gotta do their bit to survive. Just make a good stew, folk need it...it's been a tough few days."

"Sure thing," Pearson replied, bending to pick up the second carcass, "and Mr. Morgan…" Arthur paused, arching his brow at the plump man with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Give my regards to Miss. Sophia."

Arthur shook his head, muttering curses under his breath as he left the laughing man to his work. After what seemed like a productive, somewhat warm day—blustery, cold wind had picked back up, sending a series of shivers through his body. He cast a glance to the building perpendicular to him, pulling his jacket closer to him for warmth. A part of him knew it would be foolish to try and speak to Sophia, especially after the stunt he pulled.

He knew he'd hurt her immensely. He regretted his words the second they poured from his mouth. He also knew full and well to give a woman like her space and plenty of time to cool off. Hell, Arthur had witnessed plenty of naive men fall under her crosshairs after pissing her off, learning quickly that she wouldn't roll over and show belly to no one.

She hadn't earned the name  _Wildcat_  just because John Marston believes she killed one with her bare hands—which he wouldn't put it past her for a second—her versatility, dependability, and spirit were what earned her it.

As of right now, he was under no exception.

Not that he blamed her.

He pushed out a heavy breath, scratching under his chin, "You damned, old fool," Arthur shook his head, moving toward the men's cabin.

* * *

**This concludes chapter 3!**

**I do not own RDR2 or its characters. I do own Sophia and Forrest.**

**I'm also not quite sure if I'm going in order with the game. I do know that you can choose either mission around the same time. I guess it falls under whomever's preference, as this is the order I went in. I do hope that you guys enjoyed it though. I did try to be considerate of you guys. I know hunting is a touchy subject for some, as well as the aftercare of the carcass, but I will say that there are some flaws going on in that aspect, but for the sake of the game, I get it.**

**I also had a question...we all know _Old Friends_  involves a big shootout with the O'Driscolls. In reality, Sophia would be out of commission for a while after being shot in the shoulder due to damage and the possibility of infection setting up (a lot of factors), but for story's sake, what is everyone's thoughts on Dutch making her go with them? I'd like to hear your thoughts!**

**I appreciate everyone that reads this fic, and I'm more than thankful to be able to post on here and on Fanfiction dot Net.**

**I'll be posting Chapter 4, hopefully by the end of next week, depending on my schedule! I look forward to everyone's input and comments.**

**Until next time! <3**


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